


Mentor

by GoldenAmaryllis



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Gen, Other, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2013-06-19
Packaged: 2017-11-16 13:09:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 25,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/539775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenAmaryllis/pseuds/GoldenAmaryllis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He had nothing left to lose anymore, but something was still keeping him from going all in. He had no one left to trust, but from somewhere he had to find it in himself. Everyone cared about what happened, but somehow, he didn't. Not until now. </p><p>Haymitch's POV during the Hunger Games, explaining how he first became involved with District 13.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Would Have Rather Forgotten

My head pounds. Somehow, my hangover is worse than usual. Why had I been drinking so much? Ah, that is no question to ask. I drink every day. No, but there is something special about tomorrow; I am sure of it. Something that is not to look forward to. I pick up an already uncorked bottle, half spilling its contents on my filthy white shirt. Fiery liquor splashes down my throat and on my clothes, staining the front of my shirt. Whatever. Who cared. I was going to figure out soon enough anyways.

Belching loudly, I fall back onto my bed. Someone was probably going to come to nag me about the event. A Peacekeeper, no doubt. Nobody else would come over to my place. Victor's Village, whatever. It wasn't as if you'd even be able to tell, from the filth that covered the walls. Still, it's not like it matters. It's probably better if people dislike me anyways.

The rest of the white liquor slides down my throat. Oh. Running low. Should get to Hob sometime to get some more. I wonder how much Ripper has in stock. Tipping my head back, I catch the last few droplets with my tongue. They slide, burning, down my throat. I try to stagger to my feet but fail. That is a good thing anyways. Best to be drunk by…tomorrow. What was that something again? Oh, of course.

The Reaping. Two more kids for me to send to their deaths. Kids from District Twelve never had much chance. I realized long ago that the tributes from the other district, or plain just the children from the other districts, started their trades young, unlike here, where people couldn't start working in the coal mines until they were 18. So, they didn't have a lot of experience, specialties. My own Hunger Games were—

No. I can't think about that. Ugh, need another drink. Wait a moment. Where did I leave my bottle opener? I scrabble around, half-blind and groggy. Can't find it. Grunting, I pry the bottle open with my fingers. It scratches my hand bloody raw. I had lost my corkscrew several times before, so it was nothing new. I know I can buy another one from Ripper tomorrow. I have to go see her tomorrow. Buy some more liquor as well. Glancing over, I rattle my remaining bottles. Not enough to last through the night; most of them clash hollowly.

This year's Hunger Games will probably be the same as always anyways. Kids with no worked upon talent, no evolved skill. It's hard not to care, but if I drink enough, I can almost be drunk enough to not notice. I wonder if the Capital will sell me me usual liquors. Effie Trinket had obviously expressed her disapproval. Not that she actually cares. She just wants the "fame" and "glory" of escorting an an actual potential victor, which was highly unlikely in District 12.

My head really was going to split open. A few more bottles, and I would hopefully be out. I down the next one with a couple gulps. My mind aches for the soothing darkness of unconsciousness. It would be nice not to have to worry about these things. The next bottle causes a torrent of vomit. Mouth sour and throat aching, I black out.

* * *

I wake when the moon is just disappearing. I figure it is around four or five in the morning. What was I planning to do again? Something important…something I planned to do, and then there was also something bad. Well, the bad thing ought to be the Reaping today at noon, but before that I was going to…My hangover strikes and I just groan and fall back asleep.

An hour later, I get up. Oh. The Hob. I had to get there to buy more white liquor.

I don't even bother making myself presentable. Ripper counts on me to buy her liquor, and she doesn't care how I look so why should I? Clawing open another bottle, I gulp it down. I don't think my throat can hurt any more than what I'm feeling now, so I manage to choke down the alcohol. Popping open my last bottle, I stagger out the door, taking quick gulps of it as I walk. My hands search my coat pockets. Plenty of money. Ever since I became a victor, that's the one thing I've never been short on. Except for maybe the sight of death.

Walking to the Hob seemed to take ages. I probably tripped and fell a few times. Couldn't tell though. My senses were still too drunk.

Nobody said a word to me as I walked past. Not that I cared. It's not like I acted all buddy-buddy with them. But they did not really hate me either. They should have. I walked their children to their deaths. I suppose I did try to help, but after a certain point it wasn't like it mattered anymore. I could never understand why they didn't loathe me. My solution was to just ignore everything. I suppose people don't blame me because I'm a victor. Not because they want to suck up to me or anything, but just because victors hold this certain amount of respect. We're survivors, in District 12 especially.

I push the doors to the Hob aside and walk -stagger- in. "Hey Ripper," I slur.

The tough, burly woman looks up. She doesn't even say a word, just leans behind her and pulls out a few bottles of liquor.

I toss some coins onto the table. They rattle against the wood, clinking loudly. Everyone was nervous. The amount on the table was way more than a few bottles of white liquor were worth, but Ripper has never been your shining white knight. If extra was given to her, especially from someone like me, she would take it. Anybody in this place would. It wasn't so much greedy as necessary. She carefully collects them and returns to her own business while I slump and drink.

I knock off a few hours there, with nothing else to do. But even alcohol (sadly) can't make me totally oblivious. The atmosphere in the Hob was visibly subdued. Some of the regulars weren't there; rather, they were preparing for the Reaping.

The door swings open again, and in walks a young girl, accompanied by a young man. Both look similar enough to be related. Their Seam eyes have the same look in them. It was hard to explain. They are carrying their pickings from the woods: Fish, greens, and strawberries. So they're our society's two little hunters. They were often at the Hob, trading and bargaining with the other regulars, even if both of them were much younger than the others. The girl looked young enough to be in the Reaping. The young man could be. Both were calm enough, trading with Greasy Sae. Were they nervous? Did they have to sign up for a lot of tessera? How many times were their names entered? I don't know a lot about them, even though I spent a lot of time in the Hob. Thinking on it, I was usually passed out drunk in the Hob. Or in my house.

"I figure that half of our greens should be fair enough for a few chunks of paraffin." The girl's voice floats over to me. Her voice is lyrical, clear and songlike. Oh. I know another voice like that. Or rather, knew. She was that Everdeen's daughter. He was a good man, Everdeen, before the he...what happened to him? Oh yes, he died in a mine explosion. Greasy Sae grumbles, but relents. They swap the goods. I think that the Everdeen girl could have gotten a better deal, but whatever. They're kids. Maybe they trade with Greasy Sae on purpose, even though they can get better deals elsewhere. Or maybe they just aren't as smart as they look.

Packing their things, they whisk away, as quickly as they came. They hadn't been paying attention to me. I usually wouldn't be paying attention to them either, but the Reaping was making me sentimental.

I let out a belch. My job was to be absolutely drunk by then.

I begin to notice when one by one, the people around me leave, filing out to attend some business. I am left all alone, in what used to be my home.

"Hey, Abernathy, get up," a voice says roughly.

I stare blearily at the speaker. How pathetic I am, I think. But it isn't as if I can get any worse. I knock back another drink. Even with my high tolerance to alcohol, I am beginning to become incoherent. I blubber wordlessly.

"Victor Abernathy, you must be present for the Reaping.."

"No, I don't," I snarl in reply, but I trudge to my feet, knowing that isn't true. I have never had a choice.

I push past the Peacekeeper and bring my bottle, drinking as I go. The world gets fuzzier, and darker as I approach the town square, with odd glares and shines in places, like fractured glass. I catch a glimpse of Effie Trinket's pink hair. I hear a buzz of confusion. I catch a shine of gold from somewhere in the crowd, which reminds me sorely of a golden pin I would have rather forgotten.

Then maybe I was hallucinating, but I catch a glimpse of fire in someone's eyes. Even drunk, I have enough in me to be startled. I stagger to the front of the stage, alcoholic fire stirring in the pit of my stomach. I yell something, but it isn't clear. Somewhere between then and now, I drop off the stage.


	2. That Person is Not Me

"Sit down! Sit down!" I say brashly, gesturing towards her seat. The girl didn't avoid my gaze or stare at me. Her gray Seam eyes glide over mine, cool as rainwater as she took her place at the table. As if I weren't even there. Well, I think, She knows her place, and it isn't above or below mine. Food was set before her and she took it only with only the slightest bitter glance.

That was only to be expected. I had just talked with the boy, and from the conversation at breakfast added to the one the day previous when he picked me up while I was drunk, I could tell that he was no victor. He was strong, sure, but he was too kind, too pure. At least he would die that way.

The thoughts stirred something akin to longing in me. I decided to stop evaluating them because it was never any use anyways. Snorting, I pull out Ripper's leftover liquor and mix it with pomegranate juice. I had found the mixture, an odd combination of sweet, sour, and alcohol, quite heartening during the previous years' Hunger Games.

"So," the girl says slowly, looking up from her food, "you're supposed to give us advice."

Her name comes to me suddenly, breaking one of my rules of the Games: not to learn their names. Oh, whoever wanted to be courageous and honor each and every dead child would do that, but that person is not me. "Here's some advice," I say to Katniss Everdeen. "Stay alive." The funny thing is, I really don't care. The words sound so hollow I burst out laughing, but I don't miss the look the tributes exchange.

"That's very funny," the boy says, quietly; calmly. But there is a hard look in his eyes.

Not even I expected him to lash out at my hand, knocking my drink and sending the glass rolling to the floor. It rattled against the floor of the train.

This is not the boy I talked to last night, something has changed. As he and the girl lean forward to look at me more clearly, I could see the difference. He looked more askew. Less rational. I punch him in the jaw and he falls from the chair, but the change had not gone.

Thinking the confrontation was over, I reach for my liquor, but they surprise me yet again. There is a whirlwind, and suddenly, a knife between my fingers.

Then she flinches almost imperceptibly, but I don't move to make the hit. This girl, from the Hob, I think, isn't she quite the hunter? Her eyes shy away from mine, unconsciously, but nothing can prevent the memory of fire from leaping to my mind, and something about her takes my breath away.  
But the boy too. What was he doing? It suddenly didn't make any sense anymore. These two were walking to their deaths, so why didn't they act like it? I gather my wits and reply, "Well, what's this? Did I actually get a pair of fighters this year?"

They both look at me like I've insulted their very beings. Who did they expect me to be? I was District 12's victor, not their hero.

The boy finally picks himself up from the floor. He goes for the ice in the fruit bowl to put on his cheek, but I stop him. "No," I object gruffly. Don't people nowadays think at all? "Let the bruise show. The audience will think you've mixed it up with another tribute before you've even made it to the arena."

"That's against the rules," he pointed out mildly.

"Only if they catch you," I say roughly. "That bruise will say you fought, you weren't caught, even better."

So that was Peeta Mellark, the baker's son. Strong, but soft, yet somehow...ardent. And then there was Katniss Everdeen, the... "Can you hit anything with that knife besides a table?" I take care to keep my voice challenging and only slightly mocking, because from what I'd seen of her so far she seemed slightly... sensitive.

Almost delicately, she picks up the knife. Then, seemingly without much effort, she sticks it into the wall, in between two panels.

"Stand over here. Both of you." I make a show of examining them with a lot of prodding and circling, treating them like common slaves. Which, to be fair, they were. They held up much more impressively than I expected; the girl stiffened at every touch, but the boy stood stolidly. He knows when to listen. And she knows when not to let down her guard. An interesting combination.

"Well, you're not entirely hopeless," I tell them. "Seem fit. And once the stylists get hold of you, you'll be attractive enough." And I'm not lying when I say this. Katniss has a light grace and angled features, Peeta the easy handsome face of a model. But by Capital standards, all people would see was the dirt and the grime of the underfolk. "Alright, I'll make a deal with you," I continue. "You don't interfere with my drinking, and I'll stay sober enough to help you." I pause and let the words sink in. They both gawk for a while, so I snort and finish. "But you have to do exactly what I say."

"Fine," the boy says immediately.

The girl practically jumps at me. "So help us," she insists. "When we get to the arena, what's the best strategy at the Cornucopia for someone —"  
Impulsive, I note. "One thing at a time. In a few minutes, we'll be pulling into the station. You'll be put in the hands of your stylists. You're not going to like what they do to you. But no matter what it is, don't resist." I hadn't even met the stylists for the Games yet, but I had heard that District 12 was getting a new stylist who had actually requested for us. That ought be interesting.

"But —"

"No buts. Don't resist." Both of them turn their eyes on me, and it seems like they are both pleading for me to do something to help. Something to change what has happened, what will happened. But I can't, and I end up stalking out of the cabin, feeling guilt like I've not felt in years.

"I volunteer. I volunteer as tribute!" the thin recorded voice cries and I watch as confusion bursts out on stage. I glance at my drunken self who seems to be reacting; I did remember sensing some of the confusion.

Watching the recording of the Reaping was all I had expected. The sister was small and fragile, crying as she heard the words. Katniss was protective and composed. The tinny voices ring back and forth.

Effie Trinket titters something about rules, but she is interrupted by the mayor. I lean in closer towards the screen.

"What does it matter?" Silence follows and no one says a word. It cuts to a close up on Katniss's face, but there are no tears. Her face is as passive as the oaken sentinels that stand in the depths of the forest. Camera-ready. It's unusual, for one to be so sensitive to the Capital audience like that.

"What does it matter?" he repeats, and it cuts back to the crowd.

They are confused and shocked, muttering, as the mayor says, "Let her come forward." And she walks, grim as if she were to be executed right there and then.

Almost unintelligible noises burst from the little girl as she screams and runs to her sister. Pleased, I note that although Katniss tugs away gently, her voice is steely. "Prim, let go," she says.

There is a slight squabble as the little girl is pulled away by a dark-haired, dark-eyed boy: Gale Hawthorn. The two hunters from the Hob.

"Let go!" she repeats, sternly, and even through the camera lens, I swear her eyes shine bright with something akin to tears.

My hands clench into fists as I watch her ascend the stage and even though I know that it is only a recording, I can feel the charge of her presence.

The crowd had been wrought astir by her: her actions, her words, her presence. She compels people's feelings. Her and that little girl. The sister is important, I note. Her value is nothing without that wisp of a sister.

The camera locks on her, so focused and clear you can see the flush on her cheeks, the shadow of dark lashes on her eyes.

Then suddenly, the camera view flies and dodges, only showing small shoots. But I see what I need to see. The crowd, giving their silent memorial to Katniss, the girl who saved her sister. They touch their fingers to their lips and raise them out to her.

I lean back in the cushy Capital couch, musing. Skilled enough to fight, intelligent enough to manipulate, clever enough to live, and bright enough to shine. People looked at her and they saw something that was indescribable. As did I.

I move to turn the television off, but before I can, my own recording steps up. "Look at her!" it shouts tinnily. "Look at this one! I like her! Lots of..." it splutters and chokes, looking confused. "Spunk," it eventually musters. Finding its energy again, it hollers, "More than you! More than you!" My chin is tilted up arrogantly, and my finger is pointed straight at the camera. I am pleasantly surprised they didn't cut the scene after all. Being drunk did have its advantages, and one of them was that the general mass didn't believe you.

The film continues, but my mind does not follow past that. It lingers on Katniss' eyes — and mine. Mine are filled with alcohol; hers with fire. Maybe it wasn't so good to stay near an open flame, but I had to risk it; otherwise I would drown.


	3. The Perfect Touch of Rebellion

“Yo, Abernathy!”  
I look up. “Chaff?”  
He sits besides me and laughs, low and deep-bellied. “Good to see ya again, Haymitch.” He squints. “What’s the occasion? I haven’t seen you decked out in finery for years! Finally gotten jealous of my good looks?” He winks, shaking his stump of a hand at me.  
I fix the gray tie and smooth out the wrinkles from my suit subconsciously. “No, not particularly,” I answer, shaking my head. “But I’ve got a deal to honor this year.” I laugh and smile with him, but still keep a distance.  
“Oh-ho-ho!” Chaff roars. “Have ya now? Good fer you, Haymitch, good fer you.”  
He’s slightly drunk. I can tell, because I really wish I could be as well. But I had a deal to honor. At least that’s what I was trying to tell myself.  
“Here, have a drink before the kids come on out.” He shakes a bottle in my face.  
I practically flinch as I hear the liquor inside. Chaff was always offering me a drink, because he had nothing else to offer me. I tried not to fall into the friendship thing to deep. But still, the slosh of liquor was tantalizing.  
Screw the deal. “Just a few sips,” I say, and he pours me a shot.  
We’re sitting high in upper stories of the Training Center right next to the City Circle, where there are round dining tables covered in silken cloths and ornate hand-carved wooden chairs for the mentors and victors. Television screens are projected onto almost solid mists above each seat, live, as the actual events happen a thousand feet below.  
“Here they come,” Chaff mutters.  
District 1 appears from around the bend, beautiful and gauzy as usual. The other follow, and despite usual disappointments, I am surprisingly eager to see what District 12 is in, because nobody – nobody – ever requests for District 12, so if it does happen, it must be ground-breaking.  
Day breaks into dusk as District 11 heads out, both tributes dressed in drab earthy colors meant to represent dirt. They have flowers growing on their heads. A quick glance at the screen shows me that they are synthetic.  
The crowd buzzes and hums as usual, but it’s nothing special. If District 12 can make a splash to the already bored crowd…then nothing short of a miracle could occur.  
The sun finally slips out of sight, but the light does not disappear. Half a second before the stadium lights turn on, a second sun rises. Ecstatic cheering meets met ears, from the crowd below and Effie Trinket who appears in the elevator.  
“Aren’t they just wonderful,” she says, tottering around on her four inch heels excitedly. And for once, nobody can ignore her because she is right. District 12 is full of wonder, from the flickering flames on their crowns and capes to the kisses they blow and the way they clasp their hands. They are partners; a team.  
Just like Maysilee and I were. I still remember everything: the coal miner’s outfits we were dressed in, the black powder that had made Maysilee cough, and the way she had clutched at my hand as we rode down the aisle. But I had shaken her off. I hadn’t had any other choice, in that situation. My act was to be clever and isolated, higher than the others, so I had to be that .  
But there they were, those two, with hands clasped right together.  
Grudgingly, I allow myself to think of the strategy behind the move, browsing through possible strategies, but I cannot think of one. Unless they wanted to be allies, but back-stabbing was common and unpredictable in the Games.  
It makes me think of what would have happened if I hadn’t refused Maysilee’s hand... but if I had accepted I wouldn’t have gotten my sponsors. And if I hadn’t gotten my sponsors I wouldn’t have won. And if I wouldn’t have been won I wouldn’t have been stuck in this living hell. I down another shot, anger stirring in the pit of my stomach.  
I lean back in my chair and peer out the window. Chaff notices and slurs, “They look like ants down there, don’ they?”  
“No,” I say, the alcohol working well to loosen my tongue, “ants work together. They work hard. These people, they are—” I stop there. I am still sober enough to understand what I am saying, unlike that other day at the Reaping. Then I remember the hidden ferocity in Peeta, and the fire in Katniss’s eyes. So fuck that. “They are parasites.”  
Soft as the words are, I feel gazes lock on me. Chaff looks at me with eyes still blurred with drink, yet dawning on something between horror and admiration.  
Hawkins, from District 10, perks an ear. Literally. Famous for taming two of the canine muttations in the arena and using them to slaughter the other tributes, he surgically altered two of his ears, making them furry and pointed. And able to move at will.  
District 9, a middle aged woman I don’t recognize turns to look at me.  
An old, rather frail looking man from District 8 looks at me. Recalling his name, I believe it is Woof.  
District 7’s only female victor, Johanna Mason, regards me with something akin to respect.  
I find no reaction from District 6, in which two morphlings sit and drool, but Angerona, from District 5, stops in mid-sentence.  
Finnick Odair from District 4 pauses, halfway in between taking his shirt off, but shrugs and continues anyways.  
I find a pair of thin, watery eyes watching me from District 3. Beetee, I believe his name is. Intelligence in written in his face.  
And every hostile face from Districts 1 and 2 is glaring at me. Brutus, Enobaria, Poliar, Gloss, Cashmere, Topaz...but nobody is saying a word.  
The moment passes quickly enough as chatter reignites, but because I’m not drunk this time, I have no vague excuse to protect me, everyone knows that the word was there. Parasite.  
Because they were. They were all parasites, living for our suffrage, surviving from our blood. Despicable, the lot of them.  
I shake my head, because I haven’t had thoughts like this for a while. Maybe it is because I haven’t had the time to contact Plutarch yet, or maybe it’s the alcohol, but rebellion stirred in the pit of my stomach, coursed through my veins and set my lungs on fire. Oh wait, no, that was the alcohol.  
“Ah, Haymitch, was it?”  
I look up at the speaker, nonchalantly. Good thing I can still act. “Yeah. What do you want from me, Finnick Odair?”  
He flashes a perfect, white-toothed smile. “May I take a seat?”  
I shrug. “I don’t see why not.”  
“Lovely. Now. Oh — er, Hawkins! Over here!” Finnick gestures for the District 10 victor to come over, and he does. I notice that as he walks his toe, touches the ground first, like a cat’s. He takes his seat without a word.  
We all stare at each other for a while, a tense silence lying thickly between us, until Finnick jerks his chin towards the window, gesturing towards the mist screen, which is displaying pictures of Katniss and Peeta, smiling and elated and says, “I see you’re doing alright this year. Is that why you’re dressed up?”  
“I don’t see why I have to answer that question,” I reply.  
“You don’t,” he says, before leaning in to me and whispering, “let me tell you that Hawkins and I have taken an interest in your Katniss this year.” Hawkins doesn’t react at all; he just continues staring at me with those hunted eyes.  
“So? What do you have to do with me?” I growl.  
He looks at me. “Please,” he says, but I can barely understand him. His words are muffled through thick canine teeth. “A real action should ignite these efforts.”  
Finnick nods. “We would like to meet with you sometime. We’re both mentoring this year anyways so we’ll have time to talk.” He winks, and leans forward as if to continue the conversation in more depth, but Hawkins gets up and leaves suddenly, so Finnick, looking slightly surprised, shrugs and leaves with him.  
Chaff frowns. “That wolf-man unnerves me. Hardly ever says a word.”  
“Mm.” I have to agree. I have never seen him talking to Finnick before, or anyone, for that matter; the fact that the two seem to be acquainted well was odd. I made a mental note to be wary of the two.  
The music is cut off suddenly as the chariots come to a stop. President Snow begins the welcome, and it is broadcast throughout the tower. “Welcome, Citizens of Panem,” it booms, and the whole room hushes respectfully. We victors of all people know when the time to show respect is.  
I don’t actually listen to the random words that President Snow says. I had never listened anyways, even after Snow had destroyed my life. Finally, he stops and the chariots continue.  
The camera cuts to District 12 more than necessary, I note, pleased. I have to talk to the new stylists, I decide. I would meet them at dinner, more likely than not.  
The District 12 chariot finally disappears into the Training Center. The other mentors and victors slowly file out as well, most likely going to prep for the first dinner with the tributes and stylists. 

 

The dinner was proceeding reasonably enough, and the two stylists were clever, for sure. It seemed, however, that most of the ideas came from the male stylist, Cinna. I would keep an eye on him; he was intelligent and not affected by most of the Capitol madness, but I still didn’t know what he could turn out to be.  
The whole easy atmosphere was ruined by Katniss’s sudden outburst.  
She had been relatively quiet the entire meal, just concentrating on eating. Which was perfectly reasonable. But she must not have been quite in her right mind if she was idiotic enough to be proclaiming that she knew an Avox.  
“What makes it burn? It is alcohol?” she had said.  
Cinna had opened his mouth to answer, but before he could say anything, she had continued stupidly, “I wa — oh! I know you!”  
And all eyes had flashed to her, still looking confused.  
“Don’t be ridiculous, Katniss. How could you possibly know an Avox?” Effie Trinket snaps. “The very thought.”  
And of course she replies, “What’s an Avox?”  
I decide to lend a helping hand and see where she goes with it. A mistake like this could potentially cost her the Games, and in result, her life, if the word got out that she had known an Avox. “Someone who committed a crime. They cut her tongue off so she can’t speak. She’s probably a traitor of some sort,” I explain helpfully. If she can’t a way out of this, then she may as well die now, because she’ll have no chance in the Games, or as a victor. “Not likely you’d know her,” I add as a bonus.  
“And even if you did, you’re not to speak to one of them unless it’s to give an order,” Effie Trinket fusses. “Of course, you don’t really know her.”  
I can tell she isn’t going to recover. “No, I guess not. I just — “  
“Delly Cartwright,” Peeta says suddenly, and the attention of the table swivels again. “That’s who it is. I kept thinking she looked familiar as well. Then I realized she’s a dead ringer for Delly.”  
Now, Peeta is a very good liar. In fact, I wouldn’t even have noticed he was lying if I hadn’t already known the Cartwrights.  
Both had been Maysilee’s friends while we were growing up, and as much as I had tried to ignore her back then, I had noticed Rob Cartwright and Randa Whitmore just because they were constantly hanging around her and I couldn’t help but eavesdrop several times, even though I couldn’t stand Whitmore’s annoying cheeriness. I know that the two fell in love and married, very peacefully. Most importantly, I know their daughter has thin, straw-yellow hair, completely unlike the Avox’s.  
Which was odd, considering Peeta and Katniss had just agreed that she had Delly Cartwright’s hair. I narrow my eyes.  
But the Capitolists relax. “Oh well. If that’s all it is,” says Cinna. “And yes, the cake has spirits, but all the alcohol has burned off. I ordered it specially in honor of your fiery debut.  
There are a few more compliments about the food, before we move into a sitting room to watch a replay of the opening ceremonies.  
Again, I try to contemplate what the hand holding could be helpful for. Suddenly, a thought jumps into my head. “Whose idea was the hand holding?” I ask.  
“Cinna’s,” says Portia.  
I nod. That made sense. “Just the perfect touch of rebellion. Very nice.” It had nothing to do with help or winning sponsors or beating the other tributes. I scrutinize Cinna, but his attention is attuned to the screen.  
I wait for a while longer, then dismiss the tributes. They both leave, rather eagerly, it seems, although perhaps they don’t notice. The Capitolists start discussing costume designs and decor, so I wait, patiently as I can, until that talk dies down. I am never any use in that kind of a discussion, but I understand its necessity.  
Finally, Portia asks, “What are Katniss and Peeta going for, anyways?”  
“Absolutely not charming for Katniss,” Effie Trinket titters, “her manners are horrid. The first day she came on the train, she ate half the meal with her fingers, and not to mention — “  
“Oh, shut up,” I say blandly, and she flushes and glares at me angrily, but I ignore her. “Peeta can do charming. Or humorous.”  
They all nod their agreement, except Effie, who is still snidely trying to ignore me, but she keeps shooting angry little glances from the corners of her eyes.  
“Well,” I continue, “we’ll find out later anyways. We won’t need to worry too much about that yet. We do need to figure out what they are going to do about their training.”  
“If that’s the case,” Effie Trinket huffs, “then you won’t need me here. I’ll just go now.” And she storms out the door like that’ll make a difference. Pretentious Capitolist.  
Portia sighs. “Someone ought to go after her. Calm her down a bit.”  
I raise an eyebrow. “Why?”  
She looks at me irritably and mutters something about drunks, then walks out the door as well.  
I shrug. All the better to talk to Cinna alone, which was what I had been trying to get from the beginning.  
“If you want my opinion, I think Katniss and Peeta would be better off continuing to stick together and present themselves as allies,” Cinna inputs quietly. “I’ve got them the same uniform for tomorrow.”  
“Do you know what that will do?” I ask roughly, settling back in my seat.  
“I have a hazy idea.” There is a tinge of sarcasm in his voice, but it is friendly.  
“Hm.”  
He blinks, perhaps confused by my animosity. “I believe it will make them stand out.”  
“Do you think that will earn them sponsors? Intimidate the other tributes?” I ask, not sure what the response will be.  
“In no way at all.”  
“Interesting,” I reply, beginning to like Cinna. Although I don’t dare get close to him. Nothing good ever comes of that. I know what you’re trying to do, I try to tell him with my eyes. And no good comes of it.  
His eyes narrow, like he understood my message. But there’s something defiant in them, something that I know and recognize; something that I used to have. But it was long gone, for as long as I was sober. It was the thing that made me call out during the Reaping, the thing that made Cinna design robes of flame and Peeta help Katniss in time of need.  
The thing that made Maysilee reach out for my hand. I flinch inwardly, but nothing in my demeanor shows it. “I ought to go now,” I say abruptly.  
He looks at me. “I ought to go now as well.”  
I nod. “We’ll talk some other time.”  
“For sure.”  
He walks away, quite quickly, flicking off the lights as he leaves. The room grows dark and filled with shadows. A few candles in the corners of the room, lit for decoration, flicker ominously. I wait until his footsteps cannot be heard anymore. “Hawkins, how long have you been listening?”  
The unnervingly soft pad of his footsteps comes from behind me, so I turn around, but I can barely see his swaying figure; it blends in with the moving shadows of the room. “Not long.”  
“You are spying. That is not only illegal, but incredibly offensive. Why are you here? Is Finnick with you?” I say suspiciously.  
“No.”  
“Leave now then. I doubt we discussed anything that will help your tributes win,” I say. He is actually disturbing me, something not easily done after all I’ve seen. I’ve always known that he is not prone to a lot of words, but his curt answers don’t give much away.  
“I need you.”  
I snort. “You do? You’ve been around for years. Why now?”  
“Hm. We must meet later. The hour is late.” I see his ears flick. “I must be gone.”  
He is gone before I can comprehend. “Good bye,” I mutter sarcastically under my breath. It all seemed just like a dream. I shake my head. It really was getting late.


	4. Don't Speak At All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haymitch's first conversation with Gamemaker Plutarch Heavensbee, who is too interested in Haymitch for his own good.

Thoughts from the previous night still linger in my head, and I can't get it to clear. I sigh, and harshly order a flask of hard liquor from my room service. It appears almost immediately. I snag it and make my way irritably to meet the tributes for breakfast. I would have liked not to, but I had made them a deal, and meant to keep it.

I meet Peeta on the way there, and he greets me, so I manage to politely return the greeting as well. We don't speak at all past that, walking down the hall in silence.

I let them eat for a while, because talking strategy always consumes one's attention and both need energy for what they are going to face. Finally, I take a long pull from my flask, and begin. "So, let's get down to business. Training. First off, if you like, I'll coach you separately. Decide now." I had a notion to deny them that choice before, but in the end, I decided that if they wanted to be coached separately, then so be it, however much the "allies angle" could be destroyed.

"Why would you coach us separately?" Katniss asks.

It's always Katniss asking questions, I notice. Peeta doesn't usually start off with them. "Say if you had a secret skill you might not want the other to know about."

"I don't have any secret skills," Peeta admits instantly. "And I already know what yours is, right? I mean, I've eaten enough of your squirrels."

Hm. That already told me much. Squirrels were fast, small, hard to detect and even harder to catch. Perhaps the girl from the Hob was more the hunter than she seemed. Whether with snare or arrow, squirrels were impressive.

"You can coach us together," says Katniss. Peeta nods his agreement.

"All right, so give me some idea of what you can do." I already have some idea of what they can do.

One glance and I can see that Peeta's muscular arms are already lined with burn scars from working the in bakery, and they flex impressively. And I have seen Katniss and her partner drag deer into the Hob before. That was impressive enough by itself.

"I can't do anything," Peeta says, evidently intent of downplaying himself. I make note of that too. "Unless you count baking bread."

"Sorry, I don't. Katniss. I already know you're handy with a knife."

"Not really. But I can hunt," is the reply. "With a bow and arrow."

I have never seen her with a bow and arrows before, but I assumed she hid it somewhere out in the woods. Another thought comes to me: She would have a lot of survival skills already, especially in wooded terrain. That could be crucial. "And you're good?"

I can see that Peeta wants to answer for her as she pauses, thinking. "I'm all right."

"She's excellent," says Peeta before she can say anymore. "My father buys her squirrels. He always comments on how the arrows never pierce the body. She hits every one in the eye. It's the same with the rabbits she sells the butcher. She can even bring down deer."

"What are you doing?" Katniss asks sharply.

"What are you doing?" Peeta shoots back. "If he's going to help you, he has to know what you're capable of. Don't underrate yourself."

"What about you? I've seen you in the market. You can lift hundred-pound bags of flour. Tell him that. That's not nothing."

"Yes, and I'm sure the arena will be full of bags of flour for me to chuck at people."

Their argument — if it could be called that — goes on in the same kind of tone for a while. I have to admit, I am surprised by Katniss. Peeta not so much. He had a different kind of quality around Katniss. But she had never returned the favor. I am lost in thought for a moment, ignoring the two. Then, suddenly —

Oh.

That explained it: the reason Peeta was so different around her. I decided I would have to talk to Peeta later. Not to mention change my whole plan. If that what I thought was true then there were a few ways to deal with it, and I could use some of them to their advantages. Hopefully. It might end up killing them both.

Suddenly, there is a silence, so I break it. "Well, then. Well, well, well. Katniss, there's no guarantee there'll be bows and arrows in the arena, but during your private session with the Gamemakers, show them what you can do. Until then, stay clear of archery. Are you any good at trapping?"

"I know a few basic snares," she mutters, still looking down.

"That may be significant in terms of food. And, Peeta, she's right, never underestimate strength in the arena. Very often, physical power tilts the advantage to a player. In the Training Center, they will have weights, but don't reveal how much you can lift in front of the other tributes. The plan's the same for both of you. You go to group training. Spend the time trying to learn something you don't know. Throw a spear. Swing a mace. Learn to tie a decent knot. Save showing what you're best at until your private sessions. Are we clear?" I say.

Acting on my earlier decision, I say, "One last thing. In public, I want you by each other's side every minute." They both start to protest, but I slam my hand on the table. They shut up immediately, but Katniss still looks resentful. "Every minute! It's not open for discussion! You agreed to do as I said! You will be together, you will appear amiable to each other. Now get out. Meet Effie at the elevator at ten for training."

Katniss storms out the door. Peeta somberly tries to do the same, but I stop him. "Peeta, I would like to talk to you. Alone."

"I thought you weren't coaching us separately," he says.

"I'm not. I need to talk to you, and I'll be blunt about this, because you really can't afford to be like this."

Peeta raises an eyebrow. "Like what?"

"You're in love with Katniss."

There's a stunned silence.

"You're. In love. With Katniss," I repeat firmly. "And that won't work."

Still no reply. I sigh.

I lean over the table across from him, knowing that I'm probably the last person he needs to hear this from. Neither of the District 12 tributes don't really seem to trust me completely still, and I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing. "I know it seems like you can't help it," I growl, "but you are young and you haven't seen anything yet. There are moments when you can help it. And in the arena, there will be moments when you feel like you can kill her for what she's going to do to you. Now I am giving you three days during the Training to help you clear your mind and figure what exactly you want to do. You cannot tell her; that will only get both of you killed. But — "

"No."

I raise an eyebrow.

"I," he says brokenly, "I can't." And he turns and runs, the doors swinging shut behind him.

+++++

"Haymitch Abernathy?"

I don't recognize the voice, but it sounds friendly enough. Not that that meant anything. Still, I force a grin and turn to look at the speaker.

If it is not evident at the first glance of his well-groomed, expensive figure and weighted, overadorned gold wristwatch, I can tell from the badge that is pinned neatly in front of his breast pocket: he's a Gamemaker. There's a prickling sensation and sour taste at the back of my throat that I can only describe as nausea. Distaste was almost instinctive. I had been sauntering around the balcony around the gymnasium, watching Katniss and Peeta train and picking through fine wines set up on a banquet table. I had been minding my own business. And now someone, a Gamemaker, no less, was muddling his way into my business. Still, it wouldn't hurt to come off as polite. "Ah, yes. And you are Gamemaker...?"

"Plutarch Heavensbee," he says with a flashy white toothed smile. "Here, come sit. I'd like to talk to you."

I sit.

"You made quite the splash at the opening ceremony. I myself truly loved the idea. I mean, fire seems so dangerous. How did your stylist pull that one off?" He pulls over two wine glasses.

I graciously accept one. "Synthetic."

"Synthetic flames? Impressive."

I shrug. "Not particularly. They're planning something better for the interview."

"Well, well. Aren't we confident?" he says cheerily. I ignore him. "Shouldn't spoil too much; word will get around and then people won't be surprised anymore."

I reach for the bottle of Chateau Petrus and break it open, pouring its contents into both our glasses.

"Petrus? You have good taste in wines."

I raise an eyebrow. "It's one of the most expensive kinds around."

He sips and closes his eyes in appreciation. "And that makes it bad?"

"Oftentimes, expensive wines tend to taste better than not," I point out dryly, taking a sip myself. It tastes almost like every other wine I've ever had; not that I am a big wine-taster. Any alcohol will usually do for me, so long as somewhere along the line I can lose consciousness. Because that is what drinking is all about, isn't it?

"Ah, but Petrus is one of my favorites."

The conversation peters out from there, and we both sip and stare. And sip. He leans over and refills our glasses.

"Now," Plutarch says suddenly, "what I really wanted to talk you about is your Katniss."

"Just Katniss?" I ask, leaning back in my chair.

He toys with the stem of his wineglass. "I want to know if you think she can win. I know you've already started out a lot better than you usually do, and I see that you're already more...cleaned up. But is she good enough to win?"

I look at Katniss and Peeta practicing at the hand to hand combat area, considering. I watch as Katniss deflects a few hits before being hit with a vicious uppercut by the trainer, who apologizes lightly. The trainer then moves on to Peeta. A few minutes of light sparring later, Peeta uses the same trick on the trainer, sending him flying a few feet. I shrug. "None of your business."

There's a long pause. His eyes are narrowed, good humor gone. "What about you?"

"What?"

He taps his fingers impatiently against the table. "You seem a lot better this year," he says, cheerily again.

It's my turn to narrow my eyes in suspicion. "And that's a good thing," I say slowly.

"Of course! It's wonderful. I've never thought the best of you, Haymitch, and now I think it's just because you never cleaned up your act. Now that you have, I can really see who you really are, and I think I'd like to get to know you better. Somewhere private," Plutarch adds.

"That..." I notice his fingers tapping on the table have a pattern. TAP, TAP, TAP. TAP, tap-TAP, tap. Tap-tap-tap.

He pulls out a pen and writes down a number on a napkin. "Look, this is the number to my room. We could have a chat sometime, hm?" A sudden movement sends the pen skittering off the table. "Ah — pick that up for me, would you?"

I pick it up, and make as if to hand it back, but Plutarch says, "Oh, keep it. I've got tons of those things anyways." So I pocket it. "Anyways, here my number, give me a call; it's a very secure line, so we can talk freely."

"And I would want to talk to you, why?"

He looks at me oddly. "Percentage-wise, any reason, any situation is truly...essential."

It takes me a moment, but I understand his message. It's referring to my streak of rebellion from the Training Center. Parasite. Vaguely, I realized that Hawkins had used it that day as well. "Please, a real action should ignite these efforts," he had said.

A Gamemaker, however. In rebellion? It was suspicious. "Fine." I take the napkin, folding it and pocketing it next to the pen.


	5. Waiting to be Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haymitch does what he can with Peeta and Katniss, but who knows how they'll turn out.

Two days pass without much event. Well, not much. I notice oddities, but they are pretty much normal in the preparation for the Games. I notice Katniss has taken interest in a little girl from District 11 named Rue, and I especially note the protectiveness, because it would be important in the Games.

Peeta has been doing well at being just another scared tribute from District 12, despite being handsome and strong. He blends in well. Katniss on the other hand...I suppose it is a good thing.

It's the day of the private sessions with the Gamemakers. I can hope that both of them will do decently, but of course, I have never seen their skills at their best either, so I don't know how the Gamemakers will judge them. But if there is something that I know, it's that District 12 never has had it easy with this one. The Gamemakers get tired. My only hope is that Peeta could use that inborn charming quality, or Katniss her alluring nature. But I doubt either of them can produce such a thing while not under the right circumstances.

The two stylists and Effie are in the sitting room, chatting. I go to join them, but I don't say anything. Searching for some alcohol, I pace the room while chatter flies around.

"I think they'll do fine, Effie," Portia assures. "Haymitch's has been planning a strategy, right?"  
I grunt.

Effie Trinket is nervously fixing her bright pink hair. "All the tributes I've ever escorted have always gotten bad scores!" she frets. I cringe inwardly at her selfishness. "And we were doing so well this year."

"Katniss can pull it off," says Cinna calmly.

"And so can Peeta," Portia adds, "so stop worrying, will you?"

They continuing chattering, and I get an Avox to get me wine because they don't have anything less fancy to order. She brings it over a few moments later, and I randomly notice that it's Miss "Delly Cartwright." She opens the bottle, bobs a curtsy, and leaves.

I'm halfway through when the elevator dings and Peeta comes walking out. The set of his mouth expresses his disappointment.

"How was it?" asks Portia.

Peeta just frowns. "Aggravating. It was like no one was paying attention."

"It's always like that," I say, waving my hand in dismissal. "What did you actually do?"

"Nothing much. Seriously, I just tossed around a few heavy objects for a while, just like you told me to. And what are you doing with that?" he accuses, pointing at the bottle in my hand. "You promised us you'd stay sober."

"I promised I'd stay sober enough to help you," I correct, taking another swig. "So I'm helping you. How were their reactions?"

"Nothing. They just weren't interested at all."

I sigh. "Nothing we can do about it then. You'll get an average score. Don't worry too much about it; it'll keep you protected in a way."

"Okay. I think I'll go rest now." He still doesn't look quite satisfied.

I knew what it felt like. It felt raw and helpless, yet there really wasn't anything anyone could do. No one I knew, anyhow. Perhaps there was someone out there though, just waiting to be found. Once upon a time, I had thought that person was me.

The conversation around the sitting room dies down a bit, quiet with thought. Even Effie Trinket shuts up for once.

After a while, suddenly there's another ding at the elevator. We all wait for Katniss to come and walk into the sitting room as well, but there's a flurry of footsteps and she runs past the sitting room to her room. I catch a glimpse of her face. It is streaked with tears.

Immediately, we're all up, shouting Katniss' name. Effie runs to her door and tells her to open up for a while, and Portia looks slightly lost, but Cinna backs off, probably knowing that Katniss just needs space.

Peeta wanders out of his room, looking around at us all. "What's wrong?" he asks.

I just shrug, and Cinna goes to talk with him. After a moment, Peeta just sighs and goes back to his room, brow furrowed like something is paining him.

Eventually Effie stops trying, and that's when I walk up and knock, loudly and obnoxiously. "Katniss!" I call.

"Go away!" is the muffled sob I get in reply.

"If you keep this up, the last possibilities of you staying alive will probably diminish to none."

The only replies are more sobbing.

My lip curls in disdain. The girl would have no chance, like this. I thought she was stronger than that. Whatever she did, she must have done for a reason. And if she couldn't believe in her own reasons — if she didn't think about them — then she didn't have any chance at all.

It wasn't as if anything would happen to her. The Gamemakers just couldn't do anything at this point in the preparation for the Games. Nothing would happen, but she just couldn't figure out because she wouldn't stop to think.

She must have let her own anger control her. After just one week, I already understood pretty much all of her motives. A lot of it was too emotional. It would be a weakness in the Games. I slam my fist on her door one more time.

+++++

We're all sitting around the table when Katniss comes in. Nobody makes a comment, but the atmosphere changes suddenly. Of course, not in a way that Katniss can notice.

Somebody tries making small talk so I go along with it, not paying much attention to what I'm saying.

We eat, Katniss picking at her food, and I watch Peeta watch Katniss, remembering the sound of his voice as he cried No, from the last time I brought up that topic. I wonder how he is dealing with this. Finally, I make up my mind at how to get Katniss to accept what she did. The best way was, of course, to get her angry, so she would see things just how they were.

"Okay, enough small talk," I say, "just how bad were you today?"

I was talking to Katniss, but Peeta goes in again, to give her more time to find her own words. "I don't know that it matter. By the time I showed up, no one even bothered to look at me. They were singing some kind of drinking song, I think. So, I threw around some heavy objects until they told me I could go."

"And you, sweetheart?" I ask, knowing what her reaction to that would be.

She narrows her eyes fractionally in offense, but says, "I shot an arrow at the Gamemakers."

I freeze in sudden surprise and all the motion at the table stops with me. "You what?" Effie gasps in horror.

"I shot an arrow at them. Not exactly at them. In their direction. It's like Peeta said, I was shooting and they were ignoring me and I just...I just lost my head, so I shot an apple out of their stupid roast pig's mouth!" she cries.

After hearing her little speech, my mind rationally moves back to all the reasons why no harm would come of it, and I repeat them in my head. After, all I can think is: Of course she did. Typical. I manage to unfreeze and shrug, a grin threatening to tug the corner of my lips up, but I fight it down. I probably look like enough of a lunatic already.

"And what did they say?" says Cinna. He looks rather hesitant to ask.

"Nothing. Or I don't know. I walked out after that."

I am not sure whether that is a good or a bad thing, but I am impressed, despite the crushed look she is wearing now that her slight outburst is over. "Well, that's that," I say dismissively, going back to eating.

Katniss looks almost confused. "Do you think they'll arrest me?" she asks.

"Doubt it. Be a pain to replace you at this stage," I say matter-of-factly.

"What about my family?" she says. "Will they punish them?"

"Don't think so," I reply assuredly. "Wouldn't make much sense. See, they'd have to reveal what happened in the Training Center for it to have any worthwhile effect on the population. But they can't since it's secret, so it's be a waste of effort. More likely they'll make your life hell in the arena."

"Well, they've already promised to do that to us anyway," Peeta says.

"Very true," I say absentmindedly. I realize that now that I can relax about Katniss, my appetite has grown. I pick up a pork chop with my fingers and dunk it in my wine, ignoring Effie's frown. I chuckle. "What were their faces like?"

I see a smile start to grow in her face. "Shocked. Terrified. Uh, ridiculous, some of them. One man tripped backward into a bowl of punch."

I laugh, and the energy at the table rises with it.

"Well, it serves them right," Effie Trinket says, to everyone's surprise. "It's their job to pay attention to you. And just because you come from District Twelve is no excuse to ignore you." I am starting to appreciate her words until she glances around like she's said something wrong and adds, "I'm sorry, but that's what I think," to no one in particular. It's offensive, but only offensive like how all Capital things are.

"I'll get a very bad score," Katniss points out. I agree that it will probably happen, but for some reason,

I feel that for a Gamemaker, Plutarch for example, seeing Katniss shoot that arrow would be nothing less than impressive. She had fire in her eyes.

"Scores only matter if they're very good, no one pays much attention to the bad or mediocre ones. For all they know, you could be hiding your talents to get a low score on purpose. People use that strategy," says Portia.

"I hope that's how people interpret the four I'll probably get," says Peeta dryly. "If that. Really, is anything less impressive than watching a person pick up a heavy ball and throw it a couple of yards. One almost landed on my foot."

Katniss cracks a full smile at him, but I believe I am the only one who notices the look he gives her back.

District 1's male tribute, Marvel, is the first face that shows up. He gets the score of nine. There's is a sort of grim silence from our group. And then District 1's girl, Glimmer. Eight.

The numbers and faces flash on and on. Ten. Ten. Six. Five. Seven. Nine. The Career Tributes are scoring high, but not abnormally high. Most are scoring a four or a five. The girl from 11, the tiny one whom I noticed was always watching Katniss, gets a seven, so I decide that if Katniss decides to ally with her after all to just let her do it.

Then it's Peeta's face that flashes up, and the room hushes in anticipation. Eight. I nod. Strength certainly wasn't to be underestimated.

Katniss tenses up. Her face flashes on screen, and then —

Eleven.

I give her a clap on the back in congratulations.

"There must be a mistake. How...how could that happen?" she says, in the midst of the others' joyous cries.

"Guess they liked your temper," I reply. "They've got a show to put on. They need players with some heat."

"Katniss, the girl who was on fire," Cinna says, a little dreamily, giving Katniss a hug. "Oh, wait until you see your interview dress."

Katniss looks at him curiously. "More flames?"

"Of a sort." He grins.

I have no doubt that it will be stunning, having already seen a bit of Cinna's genius. The eleven on the other hand...it will obviously earn her sponsors, but as for what happens in the Games, I cannot say.

"I need to talk to you."

I pause in midstep, my hand on the handle of the door leading into my room, and turn around, raising an eyebrow. "So now you come to me. After denying me once?"

Peeta raises his chin defiantly. "Yes. I'm sorry. I don't know what to do."

"I rather figured," I say dryly. "Come on in."

The door clicks open, and I stride in. Peeta follows more cautiously, acting as if he were entering another world entirely. I can tell by his expression that he is surprised at how normal it looks. Completely unlike my home in the Victor's Village.

"It's...it's rather nice," he says.

I snort. "Yeah, well, it wouldn't be if I didn't let in cleaning staff in all the time. There's no way to keep the damn people out. Now, you. Katniss. Have you decided? Which is more important: your life, or hers?"

He sits down the edge of the bed, hunching over like an old man. Like Atlas, who carries the weight of the sky on his shoulders. "I love her," he says simply. "I've loved her for forever and I don't doubt that for a second."

"Not just a schoolboy crush?" I sneer mockingly, almost regretting the words after they come out of my mouth. I like Peeta, but he must make his decisions, and soon. Yet that was quite harsh.

He doesn't even flinch. "No. I would die for her. But I can't just...give up and die. Well." He sighs. "Do you know what I mean?"

"Hm. No."

"You're not helping," Peeta says, blue eyes steely and frustrated. "You said you would help."

"I can't help you sort out your feelings," I tell him bluntly. "I'm trying to help you in the Games. Now, if you just want to die, then so be it." I pause. "If I may say so myself, you should try to live."

This creates a thoughtful silence from the other end. He doesn't seem like he is going to reply anytime soon, so I find the mouthpiece on the wall of my room and order a glass of wine. And a cup of tea for good measure.

When I get back, I offer him the tea. He accepts it, but slightly distractedly. "So?" I say.

"I have a plan."

I raise an eyebrow.


	6. If not a Tribute, If not a Victor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A heart to heart conversation with the one and only Cinna, after the preparation for the Interviews.

Peeta and Effie are sitting at the dining room table chatting softly when I arrive there in the morning. And I had thought I was early.

"Morning."

Effie, unable to be rude, replies, "Good morning," with a fake smile plastered over her face.

I vaguely dig into the lamb stew as Peeta explains. "I've just filled Effie in about our plan."

"Our plan?" I look at him. "Mostly yours."

"Well you helped a lot, so I give you credit." He waves a hand. "It doesn't matter. Now we've only got to tell Katniss."

"Oh," Effie twitters, "She won't take it too badly. Being coached separately isn't too much of an abnormality."

She hasn't been filled in on the whole plan, evidently. "Anyways— oh, here's Katniss."

Katniss wanders up with a plate. "Good morning." She goes right to eating.

Conversation dies down, Peeta a bit nervous about telling her. I see him open his mouth a few times, as if to explain, but he closes it and shrugs every time. Effie evidently doesn't really care about announcing the news, and to be honest, neither do I.

Eventually, she seems to realize no one is saying a word. "So, what's going on? You're coaching us on interviews today, right?"

"That's right," I say.

She looks around. "You don't have to wait until I'm done. I can listen and eat at the same time."

"Hm. Well, there's been a change of plans. About our current approach," I say.

"What's that?" she asks. There's this confused look on her face, as if she hadn't remembered any sort of strategy at all. Like she'd been reminiscing and had forgotten about the seriousness of the Games.

I shrug. "Peeta has asked to be coached separately." He glances at me.

Her expression closes off immediately. "Good," she replies. "So what's the schedule?"

Peeta looks almost relieved. "You'll each have four hours with Effie for presentation," I say, "and four with me for content. You start with Effie, Katniss."

She nods. "Sure."

"Alright. Let's get started. Peeta, we're going to the sitting room."

He follows me patiently, but when we get there I find that there's not a lot to talk about. "You've got it all figured out already, haven't you?" I say. "Well, at least you'll be appealing to the audience along with it. You have a sort of natural likable quality."

"Do I? That's nice to know," he says.

"Start with an anecdote," I suggest, "something to connect you with the audience somehow, then start getting into the plan."

He thinks. "Can I practice?"

"That's what I'm here for."

We knock off an hour with that, Peeta rehearsing all the minute gestures and points he wants to make with me correcting him when he starts to wander off topic. Once we get into the second hour, even he starts running out of things to perfect. "I think you've got it."

"But what if I get distracted? What if the audience doesn't like it at all? What if Katniss..." He trails off, forehead is creased with worry lines.

I purse my lips. I wish I could comfort him but...this was the Capital, after all, and any of those things could happen. Especially Katniss. "It doesn't matter. You can take the rest of the morning off, if you'd like."

"No, I'll just brood. Anything you want to add? Any last minute suggestions for staying alive?" He gives me half a grin.

I find it surprisingly pleasant to just chat with Peeta. We don't talk about anything in particular, but I have never spoken to any tribute like this before. Usually I keep a distance, a rule of mine as a mentor of District 12 tributes, but Peeta has drawn me in as much as Katniss. This time I feel that I actually have something to lose. I just don't know what that is yet.

Lunch arrives, and we both go back to the dining room. It's quite a scene. Effie looks ready to tear her hair out, and Katniss is acting like a spitting alley cat.

Peeta looks at me, an eyebrow raised. "Is Effie really that bad?"

I think for a moment. "No. It's just Katniss." I roll my eyes. "I can see the next few hours are going to fly by on gilded wings," I say sarcastically.

+++++

After lunch I direct Katniss to the sitting room and tell her to sit on the couch. I am about to begin when I realize I've got no idea what to do. The opposite situation of what I had with Peeta, Katniss could be anything. But I have to be careful. That "anything" could turn on her as easily as help her, so...

"What?" she snaps.

"I'm trying to figure out what to do with you," I explain. "How we're going to present you. Are you going to be charming? Aloof? Fierce? So far, you're shining like a star. You volunteered to save your sister. Cinna made you look unforgettable. You've got the top training score. People are intrigued, but no one knows who you are. The impression you make tomorrow will decide exactly what I can get you in terms of sponsors."

"What's Peeta's approach? Or am I not allowed to ask?" she says.

"Likable. He has a sort of self-deprecating humor naturally," I say. "Whereas when you open your mouth, you come across as sullen and hostile." Honestly, even after I say it I don't want to take the words back, because they are true. Katniss has done enough to catch my eye, but nothing to please me.

"I do not!" she denies.

"Please. I don't know where you pulled that cheery, wavy girl on the chariot from, but I haven't seen her before or since," I say.

She glares at me. "And you've given me so many reasons to be cheery."

"But you don't have to please me. I'm not going to sponsor you," I point out. "So pretend I'm the audience. Delight me."

"Fine!" she snarls.

I can tell that the four hours in the morning with Effie have done nothing to improve Katniss's temper. Her answers start out tense and gradually turn bitter, until eventually it just dissolves into something like outright fury. Exasperation builds up in me, much as I try to kick it back down. If this girl couldn't get over a bit of anger, at me, no less, then she wouldn't stand a chance anywhere else: in the Games, in the Capital. Not even in the woods of District 12. Emotions would have to be controlled.

"All right, enough," I say finally. "We've got to find another angle. Not only are you hostile, I don't know anything about you. I've asked you fifty questions and still have no sense of your life, your family, what you care about. They want to know about you, Katniss."

"But I don't want them to!" she whines. "They're already taking my future! They can't have the things that mattered to me in the past!"

"Then lie! Make something up!" I say.

"I'm not good at lying."

I snort. "Well you better learn fast. You've got as much charm as a dead slug."

The moment after I say it, I know I've finally gone too far. Quelling my anger, I say a little more softly, "Here's an idea. Try acting humble."

"Humble," she echoes.

"That you can't believe a little girl from District Twelve has done this well. The whole thing's been more than you ever could have dreamed of. Talk about Cinna's clothes. How nice the people are. How the city amazes you. If you won't talk about yourself, at least compliment the audience. Just keep turning it back around, all right. Gush."

She tries.

She really can't gush. We'll just try a different approach, I think. No worries. "How about you try being cocky? Arrogant. Act like you're better than the rest of the tributes; inspire confidence. Then when you're in the Games, so long as you prove yourself right, they'll go for you. So try it."

She tries.

She really, really can't. I play her fierce, but she has a vulnerable quality that messes it up. She isn't clever enough for witty.

Soon, I figure out that I was very wrong when I thought that she could be anything. It seems that she isn't anything. I eventually crack and start drinking. It doesn't seem possible, but she isn't funny or sexy or mysterious or — "I give up, sweetheart," I snarl nastily. "Just answer the questions and try not to let the audience see how openly you despise them."

I stagger out into the hallway, half drunk and slightly despairing.

+++++

The hallways are empty and dark, the lights all turned off. Echoes ring and shadows are long. I slump in a corner nursing a bottle of wine, letting out the occasional angry mutter. "Damn..." I groan.

The lights flicker on suddenly, warning me of the approach of another person. I am, however, more preoccupied with the sudden stab of pain in my eyes. Squinting, I try to figure out who is the blurry figure standing in front of me.

Ah. "Hello Cinna," I slur.

He sighs. "Haymitch, you haven't been drinking again?"

"Of course I have," I say with a slight hiccup. "Can't you see?" I wave my bottle at him.

He hauls me to my feet. "Why are you drinking? I thought you agreed not to get drunk for Peeta and Katniss's sakes."

"It's because of Katniss," I snarl. I stagger a bit, woozy.

"And what's wrong with Katniss?" Cinna asks quietly.

I shake my head. "S-She stubborn. Isn't anything. She's going to fail the interview, and so the Games are lost, especially with Peeta—"

I stop there, coming slightly to my senses. No, I can't talk about Peeta's unfortunately timed love for Katniss. That would be...untasteful on my part. Luckily, Cinna doesn't push it.

"Look, if I deal with Katniss, will you sober up?"

I hiccup. "Sober up?" I repeat.

"Yes."

"Sure why not?" I laugh and lurch forward. Cinna puts a hand on my chest to keep me from falling on my face entirely, but something falls from the pocket of my jacket and clatters to the ground. He leans me against the wall and picks it up.

The Gamemaker's pen. He examines it slowly. "This...is this Plutarch Heavensbees's?"

"What?" I say vaguely, swinging my head from side to side. "Yeah, so?"

He pulls out an identical one, waving it in my face, but I just stare at him blankly. "Haymitch. Focus," says Cinna.

"What?" I slur in an offended tone. "I'm foooowoah! — cusing." I almost tip over again, but Cinna lifts me back up half-distractedly.

"Did Plutarch Heavensbee give you this pen?" he questions.

"Yes. He's trying to start a rebellion."

Cinna's eyes flash with confusion. "He's trying to start a rebellion?" he repeats.

I chuckle. "Look, he basically spelled it out for me with an acronym. Parasite. Rebellion. You know? Hah. But I don't have to want to be part of what he's doing. I don't trust him. It could be an elaborate plot to check our loyalty."

He looks around nervously, but I have already slumped to the floor again. This time he doesn't move to catch me, just crouching down besides me. "Come on," he murmurs urgently, "Let's get out of this hallway."

I somehow manage to walk or crawl or something to the place where he directs me to: his room. It was more private than the hallway, for sure. Especially since Cinna's room would be less likely to be bugged than mine. "So...what?"

Cinna shakes his head. "Right. I had Beetee of District Three take the pen apart for me. It has a microphone embedded into it, and a receiver. I think it's a communication device of some sorts. But there's some kind of pressure sensitive code.

A thought occurs to me. "There was a code. Something he was tapping..."

"Oh! Yes, morse code. I looked it up. It's from the Dark Days." He shuffles around in his jacket distractedly. There's a bit of rustling as he explains. "It uses dots and dashes — dits and dahs — to symbolize different numerals, as far as I can tell. Give me a moment." He shuffles for a moment longer then pulls a sheaf of papers out.

"Look. I wrote this down when I noticed him doing it." He lays a paper in front of me. It's too blurry for me to read anyways. "It goes dah-dit-dah, dah-dit-dah-dit, dit-dit-dit. Or in other words, KCS."  
I don't quite understand his point. I'm not even sure that he's making one. "Look, I get it. Plutarch Heavensbee is trying to start something. I doubt he's gotten anywhere though."

"It's the code for the pen!"

"Of course it is genius," I say dryly. "I was talking about why you're even trying in the first place."

He gives me a long, measured look. "Do you know why I requested for your District?"

"No. I thought about it for a while, then I figured perhaps it was best if I just didn't care." I let the words linger challengingly.

"You might want to care. I don't have a reason to hate the Capital, but I can see how it must be changed. And you need people like me in that way. You need people like Plutarch Heavensbee. He has power that you won't even be able to touch," he says quietly.

"Fine. So you're an idealist. What will that do?"

"Don't tell me you've given up."

I pause. Have I given up? Given up what? My fight against the Capital? My happiness? My life? "I haven't given up."

He nods. "Then trust me like how you trust me with Katniss. Try it. Despite the fact that most of us Capitalists disappoint, you need people like me. And maybe Plutarch." He presses the pen to the paper, writing KCS in morse code.

— o —  
— o — o  
o o o

Nothing happens for a moment, then —

"Voice recognition settings," a recorded female voice says. "Please state your name."

My senses suddenly come back to life as adrenaline kicks in and the first thing I do is snatch the pen and smash it on the ground. Cinna gives me an aghast look and reaches for it, but my boot grinds it to pieces, barely missing his fingers.

"A trap," I growl, heart thundering. "Asking for a name? It can't be more obvious than that."

Cinna takes a breath and lets it out slowly. "It might not be."

"How blindly trusting can you be?" I say. "Fine. Fine! You've still got mine, haven't you? Have fun with it."

He scowls, the most negative emotion I've seen from him so far and pulls out the pen again, writing the code. I grumpily go sit in a corner and watch. "Voice recognition settings," it says again, and this time when it asks for his name he replies, "Cinna."

"Setting saved." It hums for a while, then falls silent.

Cinna throws a look over to me. "Nothing harmful seems to have happened."

I snort. "Don't be naive. It could have sent that to Heavensbee already. He could be sending people to arrest you this instant."

"Nonetheless," says Cinna, "Something good might come out of it as well."

"You don't bet on something," I spit. "Something could kill you. Easily, without a second thought.

Something could destroy your family and friends, could cost Katniss and Peeta their lives. Of course, what do you care about Katniss—"

"I do care about Katniss." There's quiet anger in his voice, but it is still never raised over a firm statement. "I care about you too, more so than you seem to deserve, and it's because I thought there was something in you, you people of District Twelve."

I narrow my eyes. "We 'people of District Twelve' as you put it, are starving. While you 'people of the Capital' feed off of our darkest nightmares. I can't trust you anymore than I can trust President Snow."

"I am not a person of the Capital."

"Hah. I'm not a person of District Twelve either. I lost that the moment I became their second victor," I say bitterly.

"Well then," he says. "Who are we?"

I chuckle, sourly. "I am the Capital's victor. And you are District Twelve's stylist."

"No, you're not. You are a victor of your own. One who trumped the Capital."

I stalk over to him. "A victor, you say. Someone who has beat the Capital?" I shake my head, a slight crazed tone entering my voice. Slow laughter bubbles up like poison, dissolving into chuckles like spasms that wrack my chest. "You don't know what you're talking about."

He smiles patiently at me. "Fine. Then let's make Katniss more than a victor."

I am startled at the sudden change of topic. "What?"

"Let us make Katniss more than a victor," Cinna repeats, "for you. And for me."

"What do we make her into?" I ask. "What can she be, if not a tribute, if not a victor?" Or a hunter, or a survivor, or just a sixteen-year-old girl? my mind continues to ramble.

His green eyes are bright and clear. "What you used to be. A rebel."

I used to a rebel. Really? I think of my relentless restlessness throughout the Games. My focus, not on the killing of the other tributes, not even on survival. But just on figuring out the Capital's design. Its secrets. Its weaknesses. I had felt like no rebel, but if that's what I was seen as, then so be it. It was useful.

What Cinna says seems to make so much sense until I realize — "What about Peeta?" I ask harshly.

"Do we abandon him to die? Can't he be what Katniss can be?"

"Haymitch, I know that you know why he can't."

I do.


	7. Out of Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Interviews.

Green. Everything is thick, lush and green, emerald and olive and forest. Then there were the flowers, dotting the meadow like drops of blood in all shades of crimson, vermillion and carmine. The wind rustles pleasantly, sounding like the singing of birds. I feel it whistle through my fingers, play with the locks of my hair. And the smell, oh, it smelled of honey and pine, sweet and flavorful. I open my mouth, as if I could taste it on my tongue.

"Ladies and gentlemen, let the Fiftieth Hunger Games begin!"

I gasp, eyes tearing open as I wake. With a flash, my hand is reaching for the knife that is always under my pillow, but it's not there. It's not there? Why? Why? There isn't even a pillow at all. Why isn't it there? Where am I? My fingers claw at the leathery fabric of a couch. I swing my legs off into a sitting position. My senses on hyper-alert, my eyes flick around the room, trying to remember the day before.

"Sorry, you passed out here after a while. I thought it'd be best to just leave you here instead of dragging you back to your room."

"Cinna?" The memories of the previous night come back to me. My hangover finally hits as the adrenaline fades. "Ugh..." I groan.

He appears from his bedroom and deftly offers me a glass of water. "Yes, I thought you might have a hangover. Water? Coffee?"

"A drink," I mutter.

"I don't think that's a good idea." Cinna raises an eyebrow.

"Hmph." I get up and take a look around. "There's no need for me to stay here." I leave before he can really say anything else. I'd heard enough from him yesterday anyways.

+++++

I adjust a red bow tie with matching flame cuff links as I wait in front of the elevator. Effie shows up, then Cinna and Portia with Katniss and Peeta. They both look stunning, much as promised, Katniss's features dark and beautiful, skin sparkling, complementing the jewelled dress that throws off flashes of light as she shifts and Peeta looking sharp and handsome in a smart suit with flame accents.

However, Katniss is ignoring me. Whether she is still brewing from our session or whether she just decided to hate me overall I have no idea. Either way, she probably took it better than I did, meaning that she didn't give up and get sloshed.

Thinking on it, why did I get so upset? Katniss's case was already so much better than more or less all of the other tributes I've ever mentored, with her splash at the opening ceremony, her eleven in training, and Peeta's plan. I frown as I realize. I had this irrational (or perhaps not so irrational? a tiny voice asks) hope that Katniss would win. The odds, however, were not in my favor, yet I still hoped? Childish of me, yet I find that I can't seem to persuade myself otherwise.

Katniss evidently isn't only ignoring me. She converses with Peeta, but is rather distant. I wonder how Peeta is doing. His expression reveals nothing, but he glances at Katniss every so often, when he's sure she isn't looking. I remember to make sure to reassure him before he goes on air.

The elevator opens and Effie spirits Katniss and Peeta away almost immediately, worrying about being late. They aren't, of course. Cinna and Portia leave as well, making for the main platform, discussing something quietly. I follow Effie for a while, and wait until she leaves Katniss and Peeta before approaching them and muttering, "Remember, you're still a happy pair. So act like it." I squeeze Peeta's shoulder in slight recognition so he nods.

Making my way back to the main platform I see Cinna, who is watching Katniss carefully. Shrugging, I find the other mentors, already situated in their seats. My seat on the very edge of the row, next to Chaff and Seeder. He gives me a friendly nudge, and tells some joke so I chuckle and nod back, too distracted to really pay attention to anything but the tributes on stage and the cameras all around.  
Oh yes, the cameras. There are dozens of them, flitting around, as well as giant screens displaying various views. I find a few of them displaying the crowd, but most are aimed to the Gamemakers, the stylists, the mentors, and the tributes. Yes, the tributes, there's a least one camera for each of them. Maybe even two, although they move around quite often.

I see the Katniss on one. Her features are dazzling and perfect, skin shimmering like satin. But her expression is haunted and fearful, like there's something on her mind that won't let go.  
Peeta's face is there too, but he is the exact opposite: smiling and elated, like the entire affair is delighting him. He always glances back at Katniss though, but increasingly, it is getting more obvious. He's setting it up.

The entire City Circle is made of flashing light and white noise, blaring like an unnatural high. Music starts playing as the interview starts and the crowd lowers its volume a notch so that Caesar Flickerman can be heard, but the soft muttering and shifting still sounds like a roar.

Powder blue is Caesar's color of the year, but I hear a reporter commenting that it looks too much like the periwinkle that he wore 5 years ago. "He must be running out of ideas!" she laughs, and a section of the crowd — the section that can hear her — laughs as well, but it blends in with the usual ruckus.  
A bit of banter with the audience and the show begins. The ground erupts in cheers as Glimmer, from District 1 walks out in a stunning, provocative, see-through gold dress. They go through a few exchanges and it's just the usual Career Tribute nonsense. Three minutes is up in a flash and it's the District 1 boy who walks up next, in what appears to be an actual silver suit.

The Districts pass in minutes, literally. 2, 3, 4. I try to watch the interviews while keeping track of my two tributes. Katniss is fearful while the boy volunteer from District 2 is trying to show off with brutality. Peeta's expression is calculating as he watches the 12-year-old Career Tribute from District 4 answer questions cockily.

I am fascinated when Hugo, the boy from District 10 goes up for his interview. He is almost shy, in a way. Hawkins, a few seats down from me, watches intently, but there is nothing impressive to watch. Hugo is polite, but quiet, not really appealing to the audience, but not dissuading either.

"Welcome, Hugo!" Caesar starts. "The audience has been raring to see you up here and so have I!"

He nods. "Glad to be here."

"We all know that you've got a victor in your family, and more amazingly, he's even your mentor! What have you got to say to that?"

I raise an eyebrow and glance at Hawkins but his gaze is unwaveringly fixed on Hugo. I hadn't known that. Then again, I don't usually pay much attention to the tributes of the other Districts so the habit hadn't quite settled in yet. So they were related...

"Well my uncle's never really talked to me about how he won his Games..." Hugo's gaze flicks nervously over to Hawkins. "I mean, I've seen it."

"So have we all. It was a stunning and completely new idea. I mean, taming muttations is supposed to be impossible! You going to have a hand at trying that in the Arena?"

"I can't give away my strategy," he says simply.

"Al-right. Then I won't ask."

The rest of the interview is nothing interesting, Caesar trying to make some banter and Hugo answering, but managing to deflect most of the talking over to Caesar. He stays polite though.  
The District 10 girl is nothing special, just another scared daughter of a rancher. She tries to come off as witty though, and although she's passable, it's nothing special.

District 11 consists of a tiny, bird-like twelve year old who reminds me of Katniss's sister, whom I remember because I made note of her. I remember her more clearly when her training score of 7 is mentioned. "It's an excellent score for one so small," Caesar remarks.

She nods, the wings on her back fluttering in some unseen wind. She raises a hand to her chest, small fingers clenched in a fist, making the wispy length on the sleeves look like feathers. "I'm very hard to catch," she says in a tremulous voice. "And if they can't catch me, they can't kill me. So don't count me out."

"I wouldn't in a million years," he says encouragingly, and the crowd applauds their agreement.  
District 11's male finishes, and then it's Katniss. She stalks onto the stage, nervousness written in her steps. Her eyes scan the raised platform that the mentors and stylists are sitting on as Caesar begins.

"So, Katniss, the Capitol must be quite a change from District Twelve. What's impressed you the most since you arrived here?"

I see her eyes lock on Cinna, and she pauses, tipping her head sideways, thinking. The pause is almost awkwardly long, but she says, "The lamb stew," before it ruins the moment.

My chuckles adds to the audience's. It's passable, but I'm mostly laughing out of nervousness. I quell it.

"The one with the dried plums?" asks Caesar. She nods. "Oh, I eat it by the bucketful." He turns sideways to the audience in horror, hand on his stomach. "It doesn't show, does it?" They shout reassurances and applaud. For a moment, I can only be disgusted by the Capitol but I grudgingly admit that it does help. I suppose that I ought to learn how to be charming like that. Then the thought just revolts me.

"Now, Katniss," he continues, "When you came out in the opening ceremonies, my heart actually stopped. What did you think of that costume?"

"You mean after I got over my fear of being burned alive?"

The audiences laughs. Good. At least she's got something going for her, but I'm not entirely sure what it is. Despite the laughs, I hope it's not just weak humor. I can't earn her sponsors from just humor.

"Yes. Start then."

She looks at Cinna, then back at Caesar and says dazzlingly, "I thought Cinna was brilliant and it was the most gorgeous costume I'd ever seen and I couldn't believe I was wearing it. I can't believe I'm wearing this either." She lifts up her skirt to spread it out. "I mean, look at it!"

The crowd makes admiring noises, but positively screams in excitement when she twirls and the fifty or so blazing lights that are on her are reflected by the jewels, bursting with color, engulfing Katniss in waves after waves of flame. I see Peeta staring at her like he'd never seen her before and had just figured out that she was the most beautiful thing that he'd ever seen.

"Oh, do that again!" Caesar exclaims.

She does, and the audiences just loves it more and more. The picture is burned into everyone's eyes: Katniss, the girl on fire.

But not only the girl on fire now. She is also the girl who makes jokes and giggles and twirls, apparently. What am I supposed to do with that? I just hope Peeta knows what he's doing.

"Don't stop!" Caesar encourages.

But Katniss giggles and clutches onto his arm, saying, "I have to, I'm dizzy!"

He wraps a protective arm around her. "Don't worry," he says reassuringly, "I've got you. Can't having you following in your mentor's footsteps."

The cameras zoom on me, so I smile good-naturedly and wave, pointing them back to Katniss.

"It's all right," says Caesar. "She's safe with me. So, how about that training score. E-le-ven. Give us a hint what happened in there."

Her gaze finds the Gamemakers, who are sitting on the only balcony not occupied by cameras. "Um...all I can say, is that I think it was a first."

The Gamemakers laugh among themselves and nod, sharing a private joke.

"You're killing us. Details. Details."

She addresses the balcony. "I'm not supposed to talk about it, right?"

Plutarch shouts out, "She's not!" Amused, I wonder if he is the Gamemaker who Katniss told us fell into a bowl of punch.

"Thank you," she says. "Sorry. My lips are sealed."

A golden opportunity lost. She could have played that slightly better, but I admit that she gets a little leeway with being nervous.

"Let's go back then, to the moment they called your sister's name at the reaping," Caesar says. The audiences hushes. They have all seen that moment on a screen, but they were all eager to hear what Katniss had to say about it. Some people thought it was touching. Others thought it was strategic. Whichever she chose would be what I had to work with.

"Her name's Prim," begins Katniss, "She's just twelve. And I love her more than anything."  
It's so quiet that even as Katniss's voice drops softer and softer every word rings. "She asked me to try really hard to win."

"And what did you say?"

Her eyes narrow, sharpen, and her whole body is tense as if she were frozen. But it's the audience that's frozen when she speaks, her voice low and dangerous.

"I swore I would."

"I bet you did," says Caesar. The buzzer goes off. "Sorry, we're out of time. Best of luck, Katniss Everdeen, tribute from District Twelve."

Her expression is neutral as she seats herself, the applause going on, long and loud.

Peeta is up before Katniss is even settled, and the audience adores him. He is as perfect as he was in practice the day before, flawless in every expression and displaying no signs of nervousness at all, even with hundreds of cameras analyzing every twitch in his face, microphones catching every breath.

He includes the audience, not only allowing, but encouraging them to shout out words and suggestions as he starts with comparing tributes to bread from their districts. They love him. I know his words are not scripted because the wording is different from practice, but he is smooth as if it were.

I don't worry about listening to hard to the introductory things, because I know he's got it down. But I know that time's running out and if Peeta doesn't bring up the subject soon he may not have time for the most important part of the interview.

"Tell me, do you have a girlfriend at home, Peeta?"

Perfect timing. He has a good minute left in his interview. He hesitates, then gives an unconvincing shake of his head.

"Handsome lad like you. There must be some special girl. Come on, what's her name?" says Caesar.

Peeta sighs. "Well, there is this one girl. I've had a crush on her ever since I can remember. But I'm pretty sure she didn't know I was alive until the reaping."

I want to laugh, because I know Peeta's acting for once, but I can't when the audience is making sounds of sympathy. I know he's actually telling the truth, but there's always something about saying it in front of a Capitol audience that makes it sound so fake suddenly. But they lap it up anyways.

"She have another fellow?" asks Caesar.

"I don't know, but a lot of boys like her," says Peeta.

"So, here's what you do. You win, you go home. She can't turn you down then, eh?"

Oh yes she can, I think.

"I don't think it's going to work out. Winning...won't help in my case," says Peeta.

The audience is confused, muttering, trying to figure out what he could possibly mean. I grin. They'll never guess what hit them, and that's why Peeta is brilliant.

"Why ever not?" Caesar asks, asking the question for the audience.

Peeta flushes. I don't think he's doing it on command. "Because...because..." he stammers, "...she came here with me."

And the ball drops.

In an instant, every camera and every light in the City Circle turns to see Katniss's reaction, momentarily blinding the area. And her reaction is perfect. Stunning, really, how well it matches up with Peeta's downcast eyes. Her face is flushed and she stares down at the floor, not daring to look at Peeta. For reasons that the audience doesn't have to know.

"Oh, that is a piece of bad luck," says Caesar, and he sounds genuinely in pain for once. Even the crowd is agitated and confused, murmuring like lost sheep.

"It's not good," Peeta agrees.

"Well, I don't think any of us can blame you. It'd be hard not to fall for that young lady." I can't resist lifting an eyebrow. Honestly? Who in their right mind would fall for Katniss? Hah, I suppose I've already placed all my bets on her. "She didn't know?" Caesar says.

Peeta shakes his head. "Not until now."

Katniss's face finally raises, and everyone can see the dumbfounded look in her eyes, the blush on her cheeks. Every camera fixes on it.

"Wouldn't you love to pull her back out here and get a response?" Caesar asks the audience. The crowd screams their assent. "Sadly, rules are rules, and Katniss Everdeen's time has been spent. Well, best of luck to you, Peeta Mellark, and I think I speak for all of Panem when I say our hearts go with yours."

The crowd dissolves into cheering and crying and plain, deafening, roaring. I sigh. Peeta's plan has been put into motion. Now to see the result, and I'm not sure he is going to like it.

The elevator doors open, and we are all getting ready to spring upon the two tributes with praise and congratulations, when the scene really sinks in.

Peeta is sitting in the narrow hallway amidst a pile of broken shards, fake flowers scattered around him. A steady puddle of crimson is running from his hands where he's propped himself up so that he didn't land on the bits of pottery completely. But it is his eyes, full of hurt and betrayal that anger me the most.

Katniss is standing over him, chest heaving like she's just run for miles. The "cornered stray cat" look is on her face again. She stumbles backwards a bit in surprise as we all appear.

"What's going on?" says Effie, slightly hysterical. "Did you fall?"

"After she shoved me," Peeta says blandly. The hurt is gone, but I see his mask up again. Effie and Cinna help him up.

"Shoved him?" I growl, turning on Katniss.

"This was your idea, wasn't it? Turning me into some kind of fool in front of the entire country?" she spits back.

I don't have time to answer cuttingly as Peeta says, "It was my idea. Haymitch just helped me with it." He pulls a shard of blue and white pottery from his hand, wincing as it causes a fresh flow of blood. Effie squeaks in alarm and pulls away.

"Yes, Haymitch is very helpful. To you!" she says.

"You are a fool," I say, "Do you think he hurt you? That boy gave you something you could never achieve on your own."

"He made me look weak!"

"He made you look desirable! And let's face it, you can use all the help you can get in that department. You were about as romantic as dirt until he said he wanted you. Now they all do. You're all they're talking about. The star-crossed lovers from District Twelve!"

"But we're not star-crossed lovers!"

That's when I really snap. What was wrong with the girl! Stupid, stubborn, misunderstanding! I grab her shoulders and pin her against the wall, staring her right in the eyes and hoping that something — anything! — will register in that incompetent brain of hers. "Who cares! It's all a big show. It's all how you're perceived. The most I could say about you after your interview was that you were nice enough, although that in itself was a small miracle. Now I can say you're a heartbreaker. Oh, oh, oh, how the boys back at home fall longingly at your feet. Which do you think will get you more sponsors?"

She pushes me and I stumble back a few steps, but don't stop glaring at her. You could hear a pin drop. Then Cinna wraps an arm around her comfortingly. "He's right, Katniss."

More silences ensues as she thinks, broken only by the clinking sounds of Peeta tossing away bits of urn. "I should have been told," she says eventually. "So I didn't look so stupid.

"No, your reaction was perfect. If you'd known it wouldn't have read as real," says Portia.

"She's just worried about her boyfriend," Peeta says gruffly.

Boyfriend? I think of the dark haired boy next to her in the Hob the day of the Reaping. They seemed to be close. It was too suspicious; something had to be done, I decide.

"I don't have a boyfriend," she answers, flushing.

"Whatever," Peeta says, a touch of bitterness polluting his normally cordial voice. "But I bet he's smart enough to know a bluff when he sees it. Besides you didn't say you loved me. So what does it matter?"

Silences wraps around us again, Peeta still hanging on for Katniss's reaction. Effie and Portia are still worrying over Peeta's hands; Cinna is still worrying over Katniss. I am worried about both of them.

"After he said he loved me," says Katniss suddenly, "did you think I could be in love with him, too?"

Peeta looks away, but I can see how much that statement hurt.

"I did," says Portia. "The way you avoided looking at the camera, the blush."

"You're golden, sweetheart. You're going to have sponsors lined up around the block," I say.

She apologizes to Peeta, and he accepts graciously. Finally, I am able to lead them all to dinner, away from the uncomfortable situation. We start eating, but Peeta's hands start bleeding at the slightest touch, so Portia leads him off for medical treatment.

After dinner we watch reply in the sitting room. I patiently wait for the entire thing to finish, the anthem to play and the screen to go dark. There was nothing to tell Katniss and Peeta. They both knew their faults already.

Cinna clicks the TV screen off, and the room falls silent, the approaching weight of the Games laying on all our shoulders. Peeta and Katniss will leave early tomorrow morning; I will have to give my final advice now.

I impatiently wait for Effie Trinket to stop crying over both their shoulders so I can talk to them. She leaves with an awful, "I wouldn't be at all surprised if I finally get promoted to a decent district next year!" and hurries away.

Getting over my disgust quickly, I go over to the two tributes. I cross my arms and look them over silently.

"Any final words of advice?" Peeta asks, shattering the quiet.

"When the gong sounds, get the hell out of there," I say. It would be the best strategy for both of them. "You're neither of you up to the blood bath at the Cornucopia. Just clear out, put as much distance as you can between yourselves and the others, and find a source of water. Got it?"

"And after that?" Katniss asks.

"Stay alive." And this time when I say the words, I find that I do care.

They nod. With one final, downcast glance, Katniss slips from the room quietly, done talking to people. My last glance of her is a shimmering reflection from a bright jewel.

Peeta is talking softly with Portia, so I just lurk in a corner for a while. Soon, he turns and makes as if to leave, but I catch his shoulder. "I told you that might happen," I mutter, "I told you to be prepared."

He looks at me, eyes flashing from confused to pained. "I know," he murmurs. "I just didn't know it would hurt that much." And he disappears around the corner before I can say another word.


	8. It's Getting Hard to Remember

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haymitch finds himself in a strange place, with even stranger people.

It's too quiet.

The hallways are all empty. It's far too early for anyone else to be up, but I have always had a habit of waking up and wandering the halls the morning the Games start. It can't be later than 6 o'clock in the morning. The silence is ominous and choking.

Footsteps echo the narrow area, and I have a sudden urge to get out. The entire floor is empty; people are either sensibly sleeping or lying awake. The labyrinth of Capital outside the buildings are hardly welcoming, but I feel I must go somewhere.

The button labelled "G" is punched almost offensively, and the elevator zooms down. A bit of music plays, not dominating, but creating a sort of lonesome atmosphere. The crystalline walls and floor have always unnerved me. Made me feel exposed and trapped at the same time. It reminded me too much of the glass cylinders that tributes were put in right before they were put in the arena.

Surprisingly, the elevator hardly moves before it stops again. Ding. Floor 10.

The door opens to reveal a half canine face. "Fancy seeing you here, Hawkins," I say in greeting. "It's very early in the morning to be out and about."

He nods, stepping in. "Your tributes ready for the arena?"

"Ready?" I snort. "Hardly. It'll do, though. What about your nephew? He any good?" I ask, curious about what I'd found out at the interviews.

"Fine."

I glance at him from the corner of my eye. He sounds too tense. "I hear your nephew is not fine."

Hawkins snarls. "A crippled foot; so what?"

He is much too riled to be bothered only by a crippled foot. I laugh. "Touchy."

I am interrupted the the door opening again. I check the floor number impatiently, disbelieving that we've already stopped again. Floor 5. Another mentor looks at us both, eyes narrowed. "Angerona," Hawkins rumbles, finally.

"Good afternoon," she answers curtly. We don't get any farther until —

Ding. Floor 4.

"Well hello." Finnick Odair's sea green eyes are not in the least surprised. And I suppose neither am I.

Angerona, Hawkins, Finnick. And me. We are all victors, but that is not all we have in common. There is something in the lines of our faces, the darkness in our eyes. What are we all doing here, gathered in one place?

Finnick steps into the elevator as well. "Haymitch Abernathy. How lovely it is to see you again." He smirks.

I frown slightly, slouching. "You all going to a party or something?"

"Oh," Finnick says airily, "There's a really nice diner five minutes train ride out, in the next town. Hawkins invited me, so I invited Angerona. We'll be back before the Games Headquarters even opens. Want to come?"

Why not? This is far too suspicious for me to ignore and I have to figure out what it is. I shrug.

"So you're in?" Hawkins asks, gazing at me shrewdly.

I laugh. "You make it sound so serious. But I'm in."

+++++

The diner, in fact, was not a short "five minute train ride" away. It was a five minute train ride to the edge of the city, then another fifteen minutes in a sleek, glossy taxi to the next city, a bus downtown through the middle class area, and then a walk downtown.

The conditions are still far better than the ones in any district, for sure, but it isn't quite the soaring skyscrapers and long, majestic bridges of the Capitol. Us victors still stuck out like a sore thumb, despite Hawkins's insistence at anonymity. We don't belong here at all, either too poor mannered or too rich and gauzy. We belong nowhere.

Hawkins's furred ears are concealed under a tanned, leathery cowboy hat with a wide brim that he pulls down low over his eyes. He is dressed plainly; or as plainly as one can get in the Capitol, clad in loose, navy blue jeans, and a red plaid shirt that he rolls up to his elbows, his alterations hidden beneath clothing.

Angerona is overdressed in a long, elegant silver-gray dress, shrouded by ink black hair (naturally golden, I know from the Games), standing out glaring from the few citizens who were found wandering the streets.

Finnick looks the most casual, in a navy blue shirt, black waistcoat, and dark scarf wound lightly about his neck.

And as for me. Well, if I duck my head, I already look quite inconspicuous.

The four of us look so suspicious together that eventually Hawkins orders us to split up and make our own ways to the diner. The other two shrug and obey, Finnick melting into a side store and Angerona stalking the alleyways.

I make as if to leave as well, but Hawkins says, "You ought to stay with me. If you get lost here it's quite a way back."

"Treating me like a lost little puppy?" I snort. "I'll be fine."

He shrugs. "Wouldn't hurt to come with me."

"Hm. Wouldn't it?"

He glares at me, so I shoot him a grin and follow his quick, silent, footsteps.

It's a tiny diner, painted a rusting green with tacky neon lights, shoved in between a family owned barber's shop and a store selling collector's cards. A passerby could just walk by it entirely and not even notice. I would have if not for Hawkins.

He strolls in like he owns the place, and gets a table near the back. We sit in silence for a while, neither saying a word. The waitress appears, but Hawkins waves her away, saying that we're still waiting for people.

Angerona appears first, Finnick following soon after. They join us, and that's when conversation begins.  
Hawkins begins. "Glad you could all come. No troubles along the way?"

"No, none at all," Finnick says. I flick a glance at him. He isn't acting like his usually flippant self. Rather, he seems actually serious.

Angerona gives me a sidelong glance. "Well, since Haymitch is here, oughtn't we...?"

"Yes, we should," says Hawkins.

"Stop beating around the bush," I say dryly. "You're not hitting anything."

But before the conversation can go any further, the waitress makes her way back to us, ridiculously perky for five in the morning. "Will you need a menu? The specials today are —"

"Just water," Hawkins interrupts curtly, pulling the brim of his hat lower.

"I'll have a coffee," Angerona says, raising an eyebrow at Hawkins as if to scold him for his rudeness. "Cream but no sugar."

"Same," says Finnick idly.

The waitress suddenly turns to him, eyes widening in delight as she recognizes him. "Are — Oh my God — are you Finnick Odair?" she squeals, blushing furiously.

That earns a few curious glances, but Finnick shifts his scarf, then looks at the woman like she's crazy. "What?"

She blushes even redder, her face scarlet. The few people in the diner go back to eating. "Oh!" she gasps. "So sorry. Really. It's just...you look a lot like him, you know." She chuckles, embarrassed.

"Hm. I suppose. Some people do say that." He shrugs nonchalantly.

The waitress is visibly flustered. "Well I'm sorry." She turns hurriedly to me. "Anything for you, sir?"

"Nothing," I reply.

She just seems glad to be able to leave. "Alright. I'll be back in a minute or two!"

Angerona chuckles as she practically sprints away. "So they always react like that?"

Finnick sighs theatrically. "Yes, they do. It's getting hard to remember that I actually am Finnick Odair; I've denied it so many times already."

"Hush!" Hawkins snaps. "We've less than half an hour. Let's get to business."

Angerona sighs. "Okay. Haymitch. We are forming a group to, let's say, exterminate parasites if you know what I mean. But we are seeing what we can do to work from the top, because we aren't about to kill harmless ones."

I translate that to: We are a rebellion, but we still believe that there are innocents in the Capitol. "Really? And this is all you've got?" Three victors who had got almost everything stripped from them already? What can you do? What power do you have?

She sighs frustratedly. "No. We lost... a lot recently. Expanding is our main goal right now, because we're more of an idea rather than an organization at this point."

"Which one of you heads it?" I ask.

"Me," Hawkins rumbles. "My mentor used to head it, but... a lot of people died the last time information was leaked."

I look at him sharply. "What information do you gather?"

"Secrets," says Angerona.

Secret were very precious if one knew what to do with them. They could also potentially be life threatening. "And what motives do you have?"

"We all have motives," he growls.

"Heads up. Waitress," Finnick says suddenly.

The waitress sweeps back with our orders. "Water for you. And coffee for you two." She leaves in a hurry, not looking any of us in the eye. Probably embarrassed. A good thing though, and it prevents questions from being asked.

We wait until she is out of earshot, then Angerona says, "Anyways, the whole point of this is that we believe you have the same cause as we all do. We'd like you to help us."

I roll my eyes. "I'll think about it. How do you all meet? Don't tell me it's always like this."

Finnick grins lopsidedly. "Sort of. It's not too much trouble, and it's a lot safer than trying to meet back there." He picks up his cup of coffee and takes a gulp, wincing. "Of course you have to drink it without sugar, Angie."

She shrugs, sipping at her mug. "You didn't have to order the same thing."

"If I had said more than one word she would have recognized me!" he protests.

"She still did," Hawkins points out.

The three seem to know each other pretty well, by the sound of their banter. It's so unlike the cool atmosphere from the elevator. "How long has this been going on?" I ask.

"Not long for me," Angerona replies. "This is only the second time I've been to a meeting. I've no idea how long these two have been at it."

The two look at each other. "Hawkins got me in it, of course," says Finnick, "but I haven't been in it for long either. Perhaps three weeks."

Then we all look at Hawkins. "I have no idea when or where it originated. I've been at it for a year."

"Then how do you know each other so well?" I say suspiciously.

"There's something about being a victor," Hawkins says. "Some type of twisted connection that allows us to have a mutual...hatred."

I think about that, and about Plutarch Heavensbee and Cinna. "Perhaps...perhaps you aren't the only ones," I say carefully.

"What do you mean?" Hawkins asks, eyes narrowed, sharp eyebrows hooding over his eyes, casting dark shadows. His lips lift slightly, baring white teeth.

"Plutarch Heavensbee approached me a while ago, during the training. He talked to me about Katniss and wines and just banter, but he did give me a phone number and a pen."

"So?"

"He's leading a rebellion too. Much like yours, I'd imagine."

Finnick turns to me. "Really? A Gamemaker?"

I snort. "An idealist."

"Well that explains it," Angerona mutters. "What did you say about a pen?"

I hesitate, debating whether it was worth it to tell them or not. I wasn't sure if there really was anything to hide, but just in case, one could never be too cautious. In the end, I figure that it would be better to not have three hostiles breathing down my neck, so I say, "It was a communication device. But I'm wasn't sure if I could trust him, so I crushed it."

Hawkins's eyebrow lifts. "Just like that? No questions asked?"

"No," I reply, "Cinna, Katniss's stylist, came to me. He had been contacted by Plutarch as well and had been a lot more eager to accept the offered hand. But when it asked for a name, and that's when I decided it was too suspicious."

We all sit in silence. The waitress comes back and asks if we want our drinks refilled, but Hawkins waves her away, so she teeters quickly away. "We'll have to see about that. Can we talk again, Haymitch? Time is running short."

"Of course. But, if you would, I'd like to know who else knows about..." I gesture around the circular table, "...this?"

"Not many people," says Finnick. "One from Seven, one from Three and two from Eight."

"Which ones?"

Finnick gestures to Angerona then says, "Seven. Eight. " Then he points to Hawkins, and says, "Three. Eight."

A female, District 7 victor. Johanna Mason. And Cecilia, from Eight. I'm not sure who it is from Three, but if I could hazard a guess it would be Beetee. And the other Eight...it can only be Woof.

"But don't trust any of them until you see them in a meeting like this," Hawkins growls.

"You think I was born yesterday?" I say irritably. "Of course not. It's not like I can trust any of you yet anyways," I add.

"True," Angerona says. "But we cannot trust you either."

"Yet here we are. What an exquisite paradox," I mutter sardonically. "Well, we ought to leave now anyways, so you can go on distrusting me."

Hawkins drops his gaze to a watch strapped to his wrist. Oddly, I notice that the hands don't move. It's frozen on 4:37pm. But he dips his hand in his pocket and pulls out a digital pocketwatch. "It's 6:46. We're late."

There's a hurry to get back to our rooms before anyone has really made suspicions as to where we have gone. Hawkins keeps growling at the taxi driver to take shortcuts and small roads. He seems to know the place really well.

"Take a left into that alleyway," Hawkins instructs calmly.

The driver doesn't hear for a moment, and continues straight ahead.

"Damnit, I said take a left!" he shouts, leaning forwards and banging on the cage that separated from the driver.

The startled man wrenches the wheel sideways and we are all flung into the car door. Finnick slams into the left shoulder, my right grinding painfully into the glass window. Angerona, in the front seat, apologizes for her friend who's "going through a rough time." Aren't we all?

The taxi stops, and we all get out, except for Angerona, who is handing over a neat stack of bills.

"Thank you," she says politely.

The driver gives a grumpy mutter, then drives off.

"Let's go." We all file into the elevator, a nervous silence presiding now that we are back in the Training Center. I'm to meet with Effie to go to the Games Headquarters. I'm usually late, so perhaps it isn't surprising that I'm not passed out in my room like most years, but it would be surprising if they discovered that I'd been wandering about the Capital.

Finnick leaves first, Kir soon after. Hawkins and I don't say anything at all until the elevator dings at the tenth floor. "Good luck," he says.

I just raise an eyebrow, so he turns and walks away.

There is a moment when the obnoxious elevator music pauses and all is silent, and it feels like a breath of fresh air for me to think.

+++++

The Games Headquarters are bright white, all the walls and lights shining as if the pureness of the color could cover the stain of their cruelty. I catch a few glimpses of familiar faces as I wander into the main hall: Plutarch is talking with another Gamemaker, engrossed in the conversation, but he still manages to give me a friendly wave which I am disinclined to reply to; Chaff is talking with Seeder, telling some kind of joke; Finnick is thronged by squealing fangirls, whom he gives easy smiles to. But mostly it's filled with sponsors and reporters and politicians, few of whom I recognize.

The hall itself is a gigantic hoop, surrounding the little donut hole in which the actual monitoring and strategics of the Games took place. No one is be in there yet; the Gamemakers are all out greeting the crowd.

Most of the victors and mentors are out and about as well. There are sponsors to meet, people to greet and impressions to be made. This is a crucial stage, the moment right before the Games start. No one would be making any big bets yet, but speculation starts here. This is the place where my first personal touches will be made.

I decide that hanging around the District 12 door is probably the best place to talk to possible sponsors and/or reporters. Each District gets a room around the main hall in which the escorters and mentors can discuss strategy. It's almost like a clock, but there's a thirteenth section for different districts to discuss alliance strategies privately. Of course, it's pretty much the personal meeting room of the Career Districts usually, but I feel that this year it may be a bit different.

"Haymitch! Where have you been! You scared me almost to death, you're five minutes late!"

I turn to Effie Trinket, her flushed face marring her makeup and making her an almost uniform pink. "So?"

"Ugh," she mutters, then walks away to talk to some wealthy women in almost offensively low cut gowns. "Peeta and Katniss, they're like coal!" she says in a wondrous voice. "You know, if you put enough pressure on coal, then they turn into pearls. And pearls, pearls are lovely, aren't they?"

The women murmur excitedly and nod. For once, I find myself glad for the airheadedness of most of the Capitol's citizens. At least they would fall for the sappy romance novel thing more easily.

Standing in front of the door leading to the District Twelve room, I am recognized, and sought out. So many sponsors, wealthy men and women who hold power in all kinds of way, want to talk to me. There are all kinds of people here, but they are all rich people.

Someone is saying something about betting odds, and another is talking about training scores. But mostly, they talk about Peeta and Katniss, the star-crossed lovers that everyone's falling for. Good. It's working.

There are more people packed into the area around District 12 than ever before. Usually, because District Twelve's room is in the very back and no one wants us anyways, the hall around here is deserted. But not now. It is so filled that all you can see are the feathery tops of womens' hats and one or two absurdly tall men to rise above the crowd.

I talk and talk until my throat aches. I've never done so much talking for someone else's sake. It seems that only minutes have passed though, when the hour flies by.

Suddenly, the Claudius Templesmith's voice rings through the building, audible even through all the conversation. "Kindly take your seats now, the tributes will be entering the ring soon."

This just sets another eruption of talk flowing. The Gamemakers will be finally entering the center of the Headquarters, the mentors and victors should be entering their rooms and the rest of the people are going to a theater room located in a wing. However, sometimes a few exceedingly rich people are invited into the "private rooms" of the Districts to watch the start of the Games. It's considered an honor.

I usually dislike the practice even though it's useful to get the attention of one or two sponsors. But if you picked the wrong guy then it was easy to just ruin the chances of regular sponsors completely. Instead I just sign in a few more possible ones outside the door and then go into the room, of which doors are finally unlocked. Effie totters in a while later, but she hasn't brought anyone either.

Neither of us say a word. Honestly, we've been doing this for years, and we've never had anything to say. The PA comes on again and Templesmith says, "Here's our first glance at the arena."

The television screens turn on automatically. There are four in the room: one for the regular broadcasting that the Capitol audience will see, one for Peeta, one for Katniss, and one to control manually, broadcasting whichever tribute we think is best to follow.

Currently the main one is displaying scenic views of the arena, showing tall grass fields and pine forest. It is so lucky that there is a forest. I hope Katniss has the sense to go there immediately.

The other two cameras, made to follow the District 12 tributes are focused on the tribute plates, on which the two will arrive soon. The custom screen is displaying the same as the main one, but I tap the screen, reprogramming it to show me what is in the Cornucopia.

It's mostly the standard specs: food, weapons, and handy gadgets near the mouth and almost useless scraps near the outside. My eye catches on a silver bow. It must be the only one in the whole arena. I wonder if the Gamemakers made it purposefully that way, knowing Katniss's strength as an archer.

Glass cylinders rise up then retract, leaving us with a clear view on the tributes. Cameras immediately find their target. Effie Trinket squeals in delight when she sees Katniss and Peeta. "They look so ready!" she says.

But they aren't. No one can be.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Claudius Templesmith booms, "Let the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games begin!"

My mouth sets in a grim line.


	9. For These Games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let the Games begin!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a short portion that's supposed to be a flashback, but my formatting is slightly messed up so I couldn't italicize it. So just keep that in mind.

"One minute until they start!"

The main camera is doing a sweep on all the tributes. Katniss and Peeta are a good five plates apart, enough so that hopefully they won't be distracted. Of course, they are both supposed to just run from the bloodbath anyways.

The dark, lush, pine woods are where I want Katniss to head immediately. It's a grand stroke of luck that such a perfect place for her exists in the arena, not to mention that it even has a second source of water there as well. It's close enough that she should be able to reach it within a day if she travels directly there on foot. Good. I feel that I shouldn't spoil her with such small sponsor gifts as water if she can deal with it.

Peeta on the other hand… he will be a problem. I have no idea what to do about him.

The main television is now showing the City Circle, packed with people watching Claudius Templesmith stand in front of a giant screen and chant, "TEN!"

"NINE!" they roar in reply. "EIGHT!"

I glance back at the screen. Katniss's gaze is drawn right towards the set of silver arrows, but they are too far in for her to get. It's too dangerous. Peeta can tell too, by the way he's looking at her.

"SEVEN!"

They exchange a look. That can't be a good thing.

"SIX!"

The Career tributes look raring to go; they know that the minute must almost be up. They steady on their plates.

"FIVE!"

The other tributes, seeing this, fidget nervously. Peeta is still holding Katniss's eyes, shaking his head slightly in a desperate attempt to get her not to.

"FOUR!"

She glares back at him.

"THREE!"

He glares back at her.

"TWO!"

Their contact breaks and Katniss falters.

"ONE!"

The bell rings, and twenty-two tributes rush out towards the bloodbath. A few grab choice items and leave; others are fighting to the death. Two tributes are standing stunned on their plates.

"Katniss!" Peeta roars, but his voice is whipped away by the furious carnage that has suddenly surged up around them. I can only hear his voice from the tiny microphone embedded in his suit that connects to his camera. On the main camera there are only screams. Even most of Claudius's commentary had petered down, so that the blood shed will be clearer.

Katniss stumbles at the sound of the bell, turning on the balls of her feet as if she doesn't know which way to go. To the woods! I think. But she dives into the fight. "No," I mutter.

Frantic, Peeta dives in after her. He picks up a knife on his way and begins maneuvering towards Katniss. Effie is practically bouncing up and down with anticipation and excitement. "He is so romantic," she gushes.

Romantic enough to nearly get stabbed several times, yes, I suppose. He doesn't use his knife to do anything but block blows that are aimed towards him. I can't suppress an irritated sigh. He got his hands on a knife; if he wasn't going to kill, then what was he planning to do?

What the hell were both of them doing in the blood bath?! I told them to get the hell out of there!

Katniss seems to finally hear my advice. Snatching a backpack, she turns to run, but the boy from District 9 grabs it at the same time. A frenzied look swarms Katniss's eyes. It's as if her entire being has suddenly been switched on to survival.

"And the first death is Pero, from District 9!" Claudius Templesmith's voice comes on suddenly.

My eyes find the main camera again. It's circling around the District 9 boy, zooming in on the blood gagging up from his throat, gushing from his back. And the triumphant girl from District 2 shoves him to the ground, a knife in his back. Looking up, eyes bright from excitement and adrenaline, she turns to Katniss.

Effie shrieks. "Run!" she cries, as if Katniss can hear her.

"Clove has found her next target," Claudius says, "and it's Katniss, the girl on fire from District 12! Who is the predator and who is the prey? It looks like Katniss is on the run!"

The camera switches to an overhead view. I see Clove throwing a knife, a streak of flashing metal streaming through the air. I'm afraid that it will be over for Katniss in just a moment.

"And she blocks the knife! District 12 tribute Katniss has escaped the bloodbath with a wealth of supplies and a handy knife from Clove. Where is her star crossed lover, however?!" says the announcer.

The camera view flies, and I know what it will center on. Peeta is struggling desperately in the middle of the bloodbath, but anyone with a touch of emotion will be able to see the relief in his eyes and he watches Katniss sprint away. But he is tackled by the District 5 boy before he can do anything else. They both take to the ground, each struggling to get a better position. All that's keeping Peeta alive is his superior strength. He still has a knife gripped in his hand, but he's still not using it to do anything but threaten the other boy, who is wearing leather guards on his forearms and neck and a sort of thick plate over his chest.

I suck in a tense breath when the other boy manages to wrench the knife from Peeta's hand and deal him a vicious gash in his arm. Peeta cries out, but it is lost within the other screams. "He's wounded!" Claudius cries. "Oh, but what's this? Markos, of District 4 has pulled Lucus, of District 5 off of Peeta, possibly saving his life. Markos, even though being small and only twelve years old is quite a strong contender in these Games. He is part of an alliance between Districts 1, 2 and 4."

Markos, as his name apparently was, twists the larger boy's hand subtly, catching the knife as he fell from his hand. Then he slits the District 5 boy's throat.

Effie gives a gasp, but just watches more intently. I barely even hear it, focusing on what's happening on screen. But even as I watch, I find myself slipping. Are the screams I hear those of the tributes on screen or those from what I remember?

I had run from the bloodbath at that time. Was I reliving that now? The screams echo in my ears.

Peeta is trying to dodge the bright tongue of flame that is the knife that the District 4 boy is wielding, but he is slow and clumsy compared to the other. I can tell. The small boy is lightning fast, catching Peeta again in the arm and once on the leg.

It was slow slaughter. And it looked pathetic, this tiny boy striking Peeta, who can do nothing but take the cuts.

I'm afraid I'm losing my mind in the present. The last time I tried actually watching the whole blood bath was during the first year I mentored. I could not take my eyes off of the screen; I could not stop the names of the tributes from resounding in my mind. Dalber. And Sorrel. I'd tried to forget them all after that, but for years still… Verbena. Ash. Willow and Aspen and Aven, Burnet, Cedar, Malva, Nurit... And now Peeta.

Fight! I think, like a prayer for the boy whom I'd gotten too close to.

And he did, as if he'd heard me. Somehow, Peeta switches to the offensive, startling the boy so much that he takes a hesitant step back, and ducks, because otherwise Peeta's heavy fist would have smashed into his temple. He hasn't got the speed, for sure, but he's got strength, and that's enough to put a second thought into the Career's mind.

Still, without speed, unless he got a lucky hit in, he wouldn't be able to defeat Markos. If he tried to run, it would just be another chance to plunge the knife into his back.

Claudius is commenting on the District 2 boy now, Cato. I listen vaguely. "Look at that raw strength! If I had to put my money on someone it would be Cato, of District 2! He took down that District Seven girl with one blow to the head!"

The District Seven girl, I remember absently. Johanna's tribute.

Peeta is leading Markos further into the fray, and I can see what he is trying to do. It's the only thing that he could possibly do at this point. He has to hope that someone else will distract Markos enough for him to get a powerful hit in, one of very concentrated and concussive force.

The general rage of the bloodbath has separated into small battles here and there, the Career District partners often fighting together. Another boy goes down screaming to Glimmer and Marvel's teamwork.

But Peeta's wish is granted an answer. The boy from District Three, I forgot his name, but he is crouched on the ground, trying to appear inconspicuous while gathering little materials around the Cornucopia, when he gets tripped over. He makes a small surprised noise and wriggles away quickly, but not before Peeta gains his advantage over his unbalanced opponent.

He steps on Markos's hand, making him drop the knife, and then he drags him up and wrenches him into a headlock. Pulling the small boy effortlessly against the Cornucopia, he shouts out in the general direction of the Careers who are finishing off the last few tributes who are still alive after the bloodbath. The District Three boy whimpers and drags himself to the edge of the woods, but I can tell he hasn't gone far.

"You want him back alive?" says Peeta.

The District 4 girl shrieks when she sees him. "Give him back!" she snarls.

Peeta doesn't reply immediately, and just pulls the boy up in front of him so that any ranged weapons would hit Markos first. Markos struggles but for once, Peeta's strength is too much for him.

What is he thinking? You don't bargain with Careers. They are ruthless and unreasonable, and they'll kill you sometime anyways. Then I remember what Peeta had once mentioned before.

+++++

"You won't survive more than a few days without food," I tell him. "So you ought to learn how to eat in the arena before you learn how to fight."

"I won't survive a few days without being able to fight either," Peeta points out.

Peeta said he had a plan. I was just helping him build on it. After seeing Katniss with her eleven, he must have. "You're strong. Think about it. You've already got the physical advantage, but that just means that you'll have to consume more to keep that strength up if you want a chance of winning."

Peeta frowns. "I don't want to win."

I raise my eyebrows.

"I…I don't think I could win. If it was just me and, say, that tiny girl from Eleven, Rue, I don't think I could kill her."

And this is why we were different, Peeta and I. Nobility was the last thing I had in mind in my Games and it's the last thing I have in mind for these Games. "Fine. Then tell me: what is this brilliant plan of yours that isn't concerned with food."

He bites his lip. "If it's just the food part that you're concerned with…the Cornucopia has food aplenty."

I snort. "Wow. Now tell me something I don't already know."

"Well then I know where to find food."

"No offense Peeta, but I doubt you could survive off of stealing food from the Careers," I say as gently as I can. Sorry, but I'm not that gentle, and his random dropping in has irked me, especially since the last time I'd talked to him was when he ran out on me.

His face changes into this sort of pensive, thoughtful expression, his mouth half dropping open. "Who said anything about stealing?" he says slowly.

"What're you gonna do? Ask them nicely and say please? Careers will just stab you in the back when you're not looking."

"But..." he trails off hesitantly.

"Hah, kid, you can't just waltz in there and get them to trust you. They don't even trust each other in the arena."

"Hm. Fine."

+++++

I thought the idea had been dropped. Who the hell is crazy enough to ally with Careers, of all people?! Honestly, I'd thought he was sick, crazy and completely in love after I'd heard the rest of his so-called-plan, but this is one step too far.

"Hey, Lover Boy!" Cato calls. "You know you don't stand a chance against us."

Peeta shrugs, as if nonchalantly, and he is the feature on the main screen. The energy is so charged that I can feel it through the screen. "What about him?" He tightens his grip.

"What is Peeta Mellark doing now?!" Claudius Templesmith says excitedly. "Ladies and gentlemen. This. Is. Shocking! It looks like the District 12 tribute is holding Markos of District 4 hostage against the rest of his alliance! And they don't look too happy!"

Effie, who had left the room to go sign up the sponsors she had talked to earlier in what had originally appeared to be a lull, comes bursting back in, trilling. "Oh, look at the attention Peeta is getting! This is wonderful!"

I refrain from taking out all my frustration and confusion on Effie. I try to keep from hating more than is healthy. Instead, I just reply with a curt nod.

She senses the undertone, luckily for her, and stays quiet.

"Let him go," Clove says, voice steely. She holds up a knife threateningly.

"Don't," the girl from Four says urgently. "You'll hit Markos."

Clove turns on her ally in an icy rage. "You doubt my aim?"

"Well look at this! It looks like Peeta has got the Careers turning on each other. It looks like he anticipated this!" I am tempted to mute the damn thing like I have been doing for decades, but I know it's crucial to hear what the Capitol audience is hearing so I can figure out what their view has been. And it probably won't hurt to try and be a guest commentator this year, I figure.

"Cut it out you two!" Cato snaps. Clove snaps her mouth shut in an angry line and moves as far away as she can from the District Four girl. Glimmer murmurs into her ear sympathetically.

"I think the most interesting part of the confrontation is," Claudius says, "the fact that Belle, from District 4, doesn't have any reason to care for Markos. Back in their own District they hardly even knew each other. Oh, wait, I think I'm getting a message from Anubis, my reporter back at Four. Oh really! Ladies and gentlemen, I have found the missing connection between the two. Markos has an older brother, and it seems that Belle has had her eye on this mysterious sibling for a while. Perhaps that's why she is so desperate to save this little boy."

"What do you want then, huh, Lover Boy?" Cato sneers.

"I have a proposition for you," calls Peeta. "You can accept it, and we'll all be happy or I can snap this boy's neck."

That's when I realize what the sickening sensation in my stomach is from. This isn't the solid, dependable and I've-got-to-do-things-right-for-the-sake-of-everyone-I-love Peeta. This isn't Peeta at all. The boy I knew would never even consider committing murder over death. He was righteous and noble in some ridiculous idiotic way.

"What?" the District 1 boy calls calmly, evidently willing to consider it, unlike the huge, bristling District 2 boy at his side.

Effie Trinket totters in with a man in a rich purple suit, chattering about the feelings that Peeta has for Katniss. Hm. I hadn't even noticed she'd left. "You see," she says, gesturing towards the screen where Peeta stands shakily, "he is just so charming."

"It's true," the man muses. "I will put in a small sponsorship, perhaps." There's a slight burr to his tone, as if he's from the lower classes of the Capitol. But he's too rich to be a lower class citizen.

Effie Trinket practically takes him by the arm and drags him over to a small booth which contains all the sponsor's signatures. "Lovely! The prices start at $50,000…"

"So what is the proposition of yours then? Try not to cut yourself thinking too hard," says Cato.

"Baseless insults mean nothing," Peeta replied calmly. "But despite your pathetic capability to come up with stinging insults, I know that you have some uses."

Cato's nostrils flare. "What did you say?"

Peeta ignores him and continues. "I have something you need. And you have something I want."

Cato begins replying again, but Marvel cuts him off. "What is it? Surely you aren't referring to Markos, because as excellent an assassin as he is, he's replaceable." The girl from Four looks distressed at the sentence, but she doesn't speak.

Markos kicks at the words, but Peeta tightens his muscles. You can tell that the space that had originally been left for the boy to breathe had been crushed down to a tiny, whistling hole. He gasps and twists his head to the side, trying to free his airway, small hands clawing at his throat.

"No. I'm referring to Katniss."

Effie and the man in the purple suit had come back out, just in time to hear the sentence. "What did he say?" the suited man asks.

"I'm not exactly sure," says Effie. "What did he say, Haymitch?"

"Katniss," I echo vaguely.

The man shoots a sharp look at Effie. "He's selling the girl out? Were you not just talking about how charming and perfect and caring he was? The way you spun I'd have thought anyone with the ability of empathy should try and make these two come out alive. Were you lying?" he says angrily.

"Um...well..." Effie says, wide eyed and at a loss for words.

"It's a strategy," I offer calmly. "He's going to make sure that they never find her."

"What? By telling them where she is?"

"By telling them where she isn't. You see, he can't fight them. Not really. But misleading them will give Katniss the chance to kill them with that eleven of hers."

He glares at me suspiciously, still not buying it. "Would he not be killed along with the Careers as well then?"

I sigh, as if this pains me. It actually does, but I wouldn't be showing it at all if I didn't have to. "That's the thing that makes Peeta wonderful. If she think he betrayed her, she'll feel no remorse in killing him, and therefore after she wins, she won't be tormented by grief."

I see the man's eyes soften, and I know I've got him. "Alright," he says finally, turning silently to the screen to watch.

"That silly girl?" Clove had been saying. "What, you think we need you to coax her out of whatever hole she's hiding in?" She snorts.

Peeta raises an eyebrow. "You think you can catch her?"

"She did get that eleven in training," Belle mutters.

"Shut up!" replies Glimmer harshly in a hushed tone. "It doesn't matter."

"But does it though? You don't know her. I do."

You can see that they're hesitant now. Belle and Glimmer are shifting nervously, casting anxious glances towards Marvel. The District 1 boy's eyes are serious and thoughtful. "I think—"

"Have you forgotten who's in charge, Marvel? We agreed on this already," snarls Cato. The other boy falls silent moodily, but there's a glare in his eyes that says he's not happy about the matter.

Cato smirks. "Good. Now, Clove."

I barely register what happens next until I hear Markos screaming in agony, a crude iron knife handle stemming from his eye socket. It's a long drawn out wail that peters into pained gasps and whimpers. Peeta drops him out of shock, but he collapses to the floor.

"What did you do?!" screeches Belle. "He—he was—"

"A liability," Cato sneers coldly. "And now he won't be. Finish him."

The slender, dark haired girl saunters up to the kneeling boy who is clutching his eye in disbelief. A long knife is selected and mere moments later the deed is done. A clean knife in the back and the limp body collapses.

"And Markos, boy tribute of District 4 is dead!"

+++++

Katniss has not stopped moving at all for the past few hours. There's been a lull in the Games in which the Career pack has been combing the woods, tributes have just been on the move, and body collection and counting has been done. This is time for talking, but I am reluctant to move.

"Haymitch," Effie nags, "oughtn't you go sign up sponsors? We've only got small ones so far and you've yet to talk to any. We need a big funder."

"Can't you?" I say vaguely, pretending to be solely concentrated on Katniss trekking up a small knoll.

She whines for a while longer, so I eventually relent, just to shut her up. "Watch Katniss and Peeta and tell me if anything important comes up," I instruct.

"Yes, yes," she says impatiently. "Just take this and leave."

A small, handheld television screen is shoved into my grasp. I stride out of the door quickly, letting it slam shut just to irritate the confounded woman.

"My, you musn't be so harsh, Haymitch," I hear a mild voice say.

I turn around, raising an eyebrow. "Finnick. I'm sorry that you...lost your chance," I say carefully, referring to Markos, whom Finnick had been mentoring.

"It's alright," he says flippantly, but there's a tightness around the corners of his eyes. It disappears soon enough though and a charming smile replaces it. "I just thought I'd introduce you to Beetee."

I know Beetee already and I recognize him easily. Sure, he's dressed up a bit more smartly, but he still gives off an eccentric sort of aura. "And this is Wiress. She's a bit vague and not really a part of things."

Not really a part of things; translation: doesn't know about that. "I see. Nice to meet you."

"You as well," she replied peaceably. "Good luck as well. I understand that both Katniss and Peeta are still in the running?"

I pull my mobile television out of my pocket and flick the power switch. Katniss is still trekking through the pine woods. I show it to her, switching it to Peeta so she can see that as well. He's trailing slightly behind the Career pack moodily as they scour the woods. "Look, they're fine."

"Excuse me, am I interrupting something?"

My gaze centers on the newest arrival, my hand retracting the screen automatically. It's the man in the purple suit. "Ah, no, not at all. Mr. Fabian Jesuit, is it?" I say.

"Yes," he replies, his accent as rich and pronounced as ever. "I got to talk to your escort, but I feel that you are the intelligence behind your tributes." He turns slightly to address us all. "Perhaps we could sit down and have a few drinks together? I must say, I am interested in scouting out potential victors from other districts to sponsor as well."

His not so subtle hinting that his loyalty (money) had not yet been ascertained to any district was obviously directed at Beetee and I. He almost scorned Wiress and Finnick, of which both their tributes had already been marked as "deceased."

"Absolutely," I reply.

Finnick smiles charmingly, but that tightness around his eyes is back again. "No thank you," he replies smoothly. "I'll pass."

Jesuit shrugs. "Okay then. Beetee?"

Finnick doesn't stare long enough to be impolite, but he does stare hard at Jesuit before striding down the curving hallway. Beetee fidgets nervously with a small gadget in his pocket. "Sure," he mutters. "Come on Wiress."

"What? Why? Oh okay." She goes from confused to complete knowledge of the situation in just a glance.

"Good," says Jesuit, smiling in a way that seems completely genuine. He doesn't have any Capitol alterations that make him entirely odd to behold, relatively normal except for powdery white tips to his hair and a hint of a glittering navy tattoo snaking up from his collar. The suit just screams of money, heavy and sharp, cutting an impressive figure with detailed silver embroidery on the edges and gold cufflinks, fifteen, no, twenty thousand easily. "I know just the place..." He strides away, leaving us to trail along behind him.

I decide that I don't like the man; he has too much money for my liking. But it's for Peeta. And Katniss. I sigh. "Lead the way."


End file.
